#minky writes

He’s been watching, partly out of curiosity, while he’s been fumbling to string together the right words in his head. Words that would entice you to accept his offer of help without him coming off as some creepy old man. They taunt him, glued at the tip of his tongue, while he sits and broods over his continued silence.

“Your new neighbor is kinda cute, Fish,” Santiago comments offhandedly as he pops out of the front door, gawking over the top of the fence at you. He’s got two longneck beers fisted in one hand, the condensation dripping down the brown glass in thick beads while he stares. He diverts his attention back to Frankie, letting the screen door shut with a squeak-thunk as he strolls over. He drops into one of the wicker patio chairs beside him, holding out one of the beers.

Frankie grabs it as Santi takes a long swig from his, watching as you bound back towards your vehicle.

Santiago quirks an eyebrow and points towards the neighbor’s house with the mouth of his bottle, “What happened to the sweet lady who lived there? I liked her.”

“She’s still around,” Frankie shrugs, sipping his beer. The lady in question, Miss Robin, has lived beside him since he moved in, right after he got out of the service. A little eccentric, she’d quickly earned herself the title of his favorite neighbor. She’d cemented the sentiment further when she’d staunchly supported him after the spectacular failure of his marriage. They’ve had so many conversations he’s lost track of most of them.

She’s old school. Classic. Kooky, but fun.

He’s never seen her go a day without donning ruby red lipstick, an ornate flower crown in her hair, and cat-eye glasses attached to a chain around her neck. She and her wife, Virginia, used to throw the wackiest themed parties for their friends that carried on until the cops came out to shut them down. And every Christmas or birthday, she mails him a handwritten card, even though there’s, at best, ten yards between their houses.

Of course, the parties stopped when Ginny passed away from heart complications just before his daughter Viviana was born. The cards are shorter now, the penmanship less clear. Miss Robin’s health hasn't been doing so great lately. She used to greet him at the fence line when he’d get home from work. Give Vivi a smooch on her chubby baby cheek. A bright red lip print left behind. Matching giggles floating between them as they babbled together.

These days he’s lucky if they get a wave from the picture window out front. She’s gotten frail. Lipstick sloppy and flower crown askew from her shaky hands. She can’t go anywhere these days without a tank of oxygen. It was a shit hand she’d been dealt and he hated watching as her exuberance faded.

She didn’t have any kids of her own, but she had siblings and nieces and nephews aplenty. As her illness progressed, it was getting too hard for her to manage the dishes, laundry, yard work, and other chores by herself. He’d done what he could for her: mow the lawn, bring up her mail, haul her trash bins back and forth from the curb. It was kind, but in the long run, he knew there was no way he could manage both his side of the fence and hers. That’s why you were there.

She’d told him you were her favorite niece as he brought a bundle of bills and junk mail to her door one day. She’d ushered him and Vivi into her flower-laden backyard to explain the new face that would be arriving soon. She knew he would worry about a stranger flitting around her house every day. She’d sat with him on the back patio, sipping ice tea and soaking in the late afternoon sun. Vivi chased butterflies and bugs on her wobbly toddler legs while she told him near everything about you. By the time she was done, the pitcher of tea was empty, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and his daughter was dozing off in his lap. He’d left that day feeling like he knew you almost as well as she did.

That was part of the reason he felt like such a dick right now, watching you fumble with a too-large box as you twisted to fit it through the front door. He eyes the furniture in the trailer critically, wondering how you planned to get it inside by yourself.

“Where the hell are Ironhead and Benny?” Santi questions, checking his watch and glancing both ways down the block, “First pitch is in twenty minutes and-” he trails off when he realizes Frankie isn’t paying attention. He stares between his best friend and you, observing how Frankie’s eyes follow you with each trip you take from the car to the house.

He hums to himself thoughtfully and then chugs the rest of his beer. Smacking his lips with a satisfied “Aah,” before leaping to his feet with a clap of his hands. Frankie watches, dumbstruck, as he saunters to the fence line, leaning against the chain-link as he calls out to you, “Hey gorgeous! You need some help? I promise we don’t bite.”

You’re half-in, half-out of the backseat, reaching for a laundry basket of clean clothes when you hear him and turn his way. He’s handsome with his sharp jaw, dark wavy hair with streaks of silver, and five o’clock shadow. He’s got an almost cocky smile broad on his face while he waits for your answer.

You throw back a grin at him, “Uh, sure. Thanks!”

Aunt Robin has mentioned her neighbors to you. To give you the lay of the land, so to speak. Most were ho-hum, but there were some compelling characters mixed in. There was the nosy biddy three houses down, who eked out her old age gawking at everyone from her windows and reporting “persons of interest” to the neighborhood watch. Then there was the middle-aged couple across the street with two mischievous teenage sons. The boys like to swipe lawn ornaments and set them up in wildly inappropriate scenes across the neighborhood. Lastly, and Aunt Robin’s most-loved neighbor, was the divorced father who lived just next door. He always looked out for her, his daughter was sweet, and she found his friends to be such interesting young men.

You’ve heard a lot about him, actually. More so than any of the others. If this is him, though, he’s different from how you pictured. Cheekier and less reserved than what had been described to you.

“Catfish!” Santiago turns to shout at Frankie, “Let’s help the lady out!”

Leave it to Santi to throw around his swagger and resolve the issue he’d been mulling over for too long.

Unlike his friend, Frankie abandons the barely drank beer in his hands on the deck of the porch. Broad hands swiping the silent baby monitor from the railing beside him as he shuffles down the steps. He’s still clipping it to a belt loop as Santiago is rounding the fence, swinging around the end post into the next yard.

“Pendejo,” Frankie mutters, lifting his well-worn hat off his head to card through his hair, and replacing it before he follows after. He loiters a few paces behind Santi, as you hand his friend one of the boxes from the backseat of the SUV.

He shifts it so he can hold it one-handed, flashing a charming smile as he extends a palm out to you in introduction, “Santiago Garcia.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering him your name in return and then glancing over his shoulder. The man behind Santiago is handsome too. He’s a bit taller and more broad than his friend, with coffee-brown hair that winds up around the edges of his ball cap in soft-looking curlicues. You can see a thin silver-white scar just under his left eye that stands out against his tanned skin. He’s got rugged salt and pepper scruff and a matching mustache that twitches along with his upper lip as his eyes meet yours. They are a warm, rich brown and they roam over you, examining your features the same way you did his. Between the two, you think he’s the more attractive one.

Santi follows your line of sight to Frankie, a little amused at being so utterly forgotten, “Fish, stop lurking back there and say hi.”

With that, he readjusts the box in his arms and heads towards the front door, not even asking where that particular parcel belongs. Frankie takes a reluctant step forward, scratching nervously at the nape of his neck. You’re damn pretty. He already knew that, sort of. Miss Robin had shared a few old photos with him, but boy, were they poor comparison to the real thing before him now. It sure as fuck made him more jittery as he reached to shake your hand, too.

You notice how your whole hand is engulfed by his palm and the curves of his fingers. Rough and work calloused, his hand seems a perfect match to the man before you. Beat-up ball cap, red t-shirt stretched out at the neckline from wear and washed out jeans. He has all the appearance of a hardworking, easy-going man. And you like that.

“So...Fish, was it?” you question, raising your eyebrows in unison when he remains silent.

It’s mostly because he can’t stop thinking about how beautiful you are.

“It’s Francisco,” he replies, clearing his throat and finally speaking, “or, uh, Frankie. Morales,” then he points to the house behind him with a jerk of his thumb, hoping you don’t notice the weeds in the flowerbeds or the porch rails with their chipping paint, “I live next door.”

As if that wasn’t fucking obvious. He mentally groans at his own stupidity, but you don’t notice as you hit him with a million-watt smile that shoots right to his heart.

“So, you’re the neighbor!” you say excitedly, pulling him into an unexpected hug that leaves him reeling as you continue, “Aunt Robin told me about how wonderful you’ve been to her since she got sick. You have no idea how worried we’ve all been about her being in the house by herself.”

“U-uh,” Frankie stumbles for a reply before one catches on his tongue, “I-It’s no problem. Neighbors are supposed to look out for each other.”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” you beam, pulling back to look him earnestly in the face, “Not enough people feel that way these days.”

Admittedly, he probably has an outdated view of urban Americana and maybe it might be suitable if he lived anywhere else. The neighborhood he lives in isn’t the greatest. Thirty or so years ago it was the ideal with its cookie-cutter houses and tree-lined streets. Nowadays too many families have been pulling out of the city for suburbia and the country. The houses ended up sitting vacant or converted to rentals, leased to sketchy college students looking for cheap rent off-campus. The ones that stayed behind were either too attached to their homes, like Miss Robin, or couldn’t afford to move, like him.

He offers you a lopsided grin that pulls a dimple into his right cheek as he motions to the back of your vehicle, “What should I grab?”

“Anything is fine,” you say, sweeping up the basket of clothes you had set down when Santiago had called out to you. Frankie pops open the tailgate to grab one of the larger boxes stacked back there and follows after you up the front walk.

The house is a quaint single-story two-bedroom affair, the outside a muted pastel blue with white trim and a dark gray roof. The age of its owner is more evident inside, with retro scalloped wallpaper, wood paneling, worn shag carpeting, and faded linoleum. A bright mix of tangerine, canary yellow, and walnut that would have been in vogue when the home was purchased.

Your aunt is seated in a plush velvet lounge chair across the room. Santiago kneels beside her, leaning on the armrest as she pats his cheek affectionately. He whispers something to her that makes her eyes go wide before she bursts into laughter. You give them both a wave as you and Frankie pass through the living room and take a left into a short hallway.

The first door on the right is ajar, the room lit by an outdated ceiling fan that swirls lazily overhead. You step inside, wiggle an elbow towards a pile of boxes in the far corner, and tell him, “Over there is fine,” as you plunk the basket in your arms into the bottom of the closet on the other side of the room. He stacks his armload with the others before the two of you retreat back through the house.

“Francisco,” Miss Robin coos at him as he passes, waving him over with her hands, “You come over here and give me a hug real quick.”

You linger at the doorway, watching as he crosses the room without hesitation, wrapping her petite frame in the broadness of his own. He’s careful of the tubing and nosepiece for her oxygen as he embraces her and you can’t help the grin that spreads ear-to-ear as you brush past Santiago as he’s heading in with another load.

“How’s our Vivi?” she asks Frankie in a soft voice as he pulls away again, “I miss her sweet face.”

He tells her all about how big his daughter is getting. Tall for her age. Her features seem less baby-like every day he picks her up from daycare. Growing into a miniature version of him, as his friends would tell it. Then there are the new words and colors and songs she’s learned.

Aunt Robin smiles softly, watching as his eyes flick up to look at you each time you cross the room with another load.

“The two of you will have to come have dinner with us sometime,” She pats the back of his hand excitedly, “My girl is a good cook. She’ll take care of us,” and then a sly grin pulls at her lips, “I hope you’ll look out for her like you have for me.”

“Of course I will,” he promises, pecking her on the cheek as he stands again, “I should get back to helping before Pope accuses me of slacking.”

With three of you put to the task, it’s quick work emptying out the back of the Trailblazer. A few small totes and a crate of bathroom essentials are all that remain, which are easy enough for you to get later. Frankie and Santiago make the decision to start hauling in the bedroom furniture next, unloading your dresser from the back of the trailer as a souped-up truck rolls into Frankie’s driveway.

All three of you shoot looks over the fence as Will and Benny hop out of the cab. They’re bickering about something as the doors slam behind them. As you watch them you wonder if your new neighbor and his friends have cornered the market on good looks.

“Pope! Fish!” the younger of the two shouts, holding up a six-pack of fruity beer, “What are you boys doing?!” before he motions dramatically towards Frankie’s house, “The game’s already started.”

“More of your friends?” you question Frankie, as he and Santi gently set down the dresser on the walkway. The older one has already jogged over to where the three of you are standing, relieving you of the empty dresser drawer you were carrying.

“Will Miller,” Frankie introduces you to the man in front of you, “and that’s his brother Benny.”

Benny is still standing in his driveway, passing belligerent looks between all of you before his brother barks, “Get over here and help Benjamin!” and he heaves an annoyed sigh before setting his beer on the truck’s hood and hustling over.

You are a little taken aback by all of the unexpected help, as the four of them manage to unload your entire bedroom setup into the spare room in no time flat. Aunt Robin is thrilled over all of the extra visitors, who all greet her with kindness and familiarity. You glance at Frankie, who is laughing as your aunt pinches Benny's cheeks, and are overwhelmingly grateful for the fact that he has clearly done more than just check-in on her every so often.

You’re walking the four of them back to the fence line when a navy blue Kia slips into the driveway behind you, your best friend behind the wheel.

“Turns out I didn’t need you after all Liv!” you crow as she exits the vehicle, taking an appreciative look at your newfound company before nearly being barrelled over by your large Goldendoodle as he charges towards you in excitement.

She lets out an exasperated noise as he trots away, “I’d have been here an hour ago if your furry friend here would have gotten his ass into the damn car when I told him to.”

“My Gatsby?” you fuss, leaning over to scritch him as he prances circles around you before he skirts past you to investigate your neighbor and his friends with inquisitive snuffles at their legs, “Sounds about right for you, you hairy monstrosity.”

Liv takes a few moments to get through some introductions while you try to wrangle in your canine companion.

Gatsby decides that out of the four of them, Frankie is the most interesting subject. His two large paws scrambling up onto his chest, so he can sniff at Frankie’s scruff and slobber at his chin. You tug at his collar with an authoritative, “Get down!” but your neighbor takes it all in an easy stride, rubbing Gatsby down with both hands.

“I probably smell like my dog,” Frankie says aloud, talking to your dog and not you, “Little shit is going to be jealous if he finds out I’ve been petting you.”

As if on cue, a brown and black foxhound pops up into one of the front windows next door, a boisterous yowl sounding through the baby monitor at Frankie’s hip. You hear him groan moments before a shrill cry of “Papa!” carries over the sound of the dog. He nudges Gatsby back down onto all fours and waits for you to get a hold of him before he locks eyes with you, “That’s my baby girl. I gotta go.”

“No, of course,” you tell him, “Thank you so much for the help. I owe you.”

“It’s no trouble,” he smiles at you one last time, before retreating with his friends towards the house.

There are dishes in the sink that need washing. Laundry in the dryer, growing wrinkled and cold. The counters need to be wiped down and the floors swept. But you are in the backyard instead, enticed by the beauty of the day. It’s temperate and bright, dappled sunlight glimmering through the leaves of the maples, oaks, and cypress that spackle the neighborhood. The air is rich with the heady sweet florals of Aunt Robin’s garden and the resonating sounds of joy that drift over the fence.

Frankie’s back deck has been invaded by his friends. They take turns cracking jokes, choosing songs from a classic rock playlist, and rolling in the grass with his beautiful daughter. It’s heartwarming, watching these burly grown men love on that tiny, sweet girl. Which is part of the reason that you’re out here, planting blush pink chrysanthemums in the already overcrowded beds and letting the housework wait. You’ve been drawn in by your neighbor and his friends from the moment that you met them.

You’ve gleaned a lot, observing them from the quiet corners of your yard. Sometimes getting details straight from Frankie. Or through sly comments made by your aunt, who delivers them in breathy whispers against your ear when she catches your lingering looks when they turn up next door.

There’s straight-laced Will, with his clean-cut, all-American appeal. He’s tall and laid-back, with a no-nonsense take on life. Steady and cool no matter what chaos breaks out. His brother, Benny, is cut from a similar cloth, though his personality skews into goofiness. You get the idea he likes to be the loudest person in the room, dropping wise-ass remarks or instigating tickle wars with Vivi until she’s red-faced and lost in a giggling fit. Santiago, well, you could tell from the get-go that he fancies himself as some suave casanova. Full of honeyed words and cheeky grins, strutting around like a peacock looking to mate. He likes to crow to you over the fence, dropping saucy flirtations that always fail to bait you. Then there’s Frankie. He’s warm, smart, and uncommonly kind with a quiet, soft-spoken charm. In the last few months, he and Viviana have managed to stitch themselves into your life as if sewn in by an expert seamstress. It’s a delightfully unexpected symbiosis.

It started small. He’d bring up the bins on trash day if you got home late. Casually remind you as he leaned on the fencepost that you should park in the driveway at night not the street, otherwise the cops will ticket you. You would sneak Alamo, his hound dog, treats threaded between the gaps in the chain-link. Sit out on the back patio with your Bluetooth speaker blasting Disney songs, so you and Vivi could serenade each other while she blew bubbles or splashed in her kiddie pool.

It grew, with him offering to continue to mow the lawn when Aunt Robin’s ancient contraption refused to start. In exchange, you took his daughter on adventures to the neighborhood park where she would burn off most of her excess energy. Afterward, he’d sit at the back patio with you, downing an icy beer while you and Vivi sipped pink lemonade, watching the dogs sprint through their respective yards. You once spent an afternoon clearing his flower beds of weeds and coaxing his dying coreopsis and zinnias back to life. Carefully pruning and watering them over weeks until they bloomed in bursts of gold and garnet and magenta. He canceled a night out with the boys to sort out your washer when the drum refused to spin and it puddled water down the hallway. Sending you next door to use his, watching cartoons with Viviana while the clothes went through the wash.

It evolved into Monday movie nights at his. Some PG thing playing on the flat screen while his daughter wedged herself between the two of you. Gorging on popcorn and pretzels and soda. Then Wednesday night dinners at yours. You’d cook, he’d set the table. Vivi would read stories with Aunt Robin while you both cleaned up. She’d fall asleep on Gatsby's wispy haunches while Frankie waltzed with your aunt in the living room as Eric Clapton and Barry White played on her old 45s. You’d snap pictures of it all with a vintage polaroid camera you found gathering dust in the back of a closet. You’d walk them to the fence, twisting Vivi’s curls around your finger while you kissed her sleepy head goodbye.

There was hardly a day that went by that you didn’t spend at least a few minutes in each other's company. Conversation between the two of you seemed easy, passed back and forth as you went about the routine of your days. It wasn’t hard to see why Aunt Robin was so fond of him. He was the best sort of neighbor to have and an ideal kind of man: respectful, honest, and hardworking. An EMS helicopter pilot for one of the local hospitals, who talked proudly about his job without being arrogant. A devoted father and friend. It was no great wonder that you were hiding a hopeless crush on him.

For all the time the two of you spent together, it felt like there was still a barrier between you, like the fence that separated your yards. Something unbreachable that kept you firmly apart from the realm that encompassed him and his friends. It was likely that Frankie was just doing the neighborly thing, looking out for you as he had your aunt and nothing more. Which only made you feel ridiculous when you imagined being invited into their inner circle. Instead, you would simply pretend you belonged as you eavesdropped on his life from here.

Across the fence, Alamo has been making a pest of himself, stealing snacks from Vivi’s tiny fingers and begging for handouts from the grill. Santi shoos him away with a stern, “¡Vete!” and a clack of the tongs in his hands until the dog retreats. He makes another round of the deck, nearly tripping Joanna, Benny’s fiancé, as he nudges against the back of her knees seeking to be pet. Then trying to scramble into Laura’s lap as she drops to sit beside her husband, until Will pushes the pooch down and playful swats at his hindquarters as he sulks away.

Thoroughly deflected by everyone in the nearby vicinity he skitters down from the deck and trots to the fence line. He plants himself inches from it, yowling dejectedly in your direction until you turn to acknowledge him.

“What’s the matter, pup?” you coo, setting aside your trowel and packing soil around the roots of your freshly planted chrysanthemums. You spread out a new layer of mulch around the stems before giving him a sympathetic look, “Are you being ignored?”

Frankie spots you as he’s returning from the kitchen, a Capri Sun in hand to soothe away his daughter’s tears since his furry troublemaker had gobbled up the last of her goldfish crackers. He watches you toss aside your gardening gloves and scoot up to the chain link to dote on the offending beast, sliding the patio door shut behind him. You beam him a radiant, pearly smile as his gaze lingers and catches your notice as he crosses the deck towards Viviana. You only break it when Alamo summons your attention back to him with a throaty whinge.

Still, he can’t look away as he passes the drink pouch to his daughter’s waiting hands, dropping into a deck chair. You let out a laugh as the dog licks at your fingers through the gaps in the fence. It’s a bright, tinkling sound that makes a tightness pull in his chest. To say that he’s infatuated by you is an understatement. You’ve engraved yourself into his quiet life. Though you may have come along to care for your ailing aunt, he’s found himself and his daughter often the equal recipients of your adoration and kindness.

There’s always a small part of him that feels unworthy of it. Despite regular visits with his therapist, he struggles to accept that he deserves the life he has, with his beautiful daughter, his strong friendship with the boys, and this newfound connection to you. He’s haunted by the demons of his past and a gnawing sense of inadequacy. Still, he tries to remind himself to be grateful. Especially where Vivi is concerned; his baby girl thriving with how you devote your free hours to her. It’s a tempered joy that makes his heart ache when he realizes how much she’s needed more than just his presence in her life.

He thinks about the way you teach her the names of the flowers in his yard, leading her slowly around the perimeter as her tiny hands brush across petals and fern fronds while she repeats them back in her soft toddler stammer. Or how you sit on the front porch with him in the cool hours of early morning as he takes groggy sips of black coffee. Pulling Vivi’s hair up into fancy ponytails, french braids, and poofy buns before he carts her off to daycare, while he listens half-awake to your instructions on how it’s done. You’ve even taken up your aunt’s place at the fence, waiting for them to get home in the evenings so you can smooch her cheek and tell them both goodnight.

It feels so perfect and natural at times that he’s constantly looking for more ways to be near you. To take a stroll around the block with him at sunset, take a day with him and Vivi at the beach, or to have you join in when the boys and their ladies come for a weekend barbecue. But just like the day you moved in, he’s hopelessly tongue-tied and unable to parse out the words, worried it will come out wrong or that his feelings will be on full display when he’d rather keep them close to the chest for now. His divorce has left him with a residual vulnerability that’s made him averse to emotional displays for fear of censure.

“Okay, I’ve got to get back to it, buddy,” you tell Alamo as you rise to your feet, wiping his slobber onto your jeans. He pouts and begins to pace in front of you, stopping to gaze expectantly at your back door and make small whimpers. You know he’s looking for Gatsby to keep him entertained, now that you have to leave him. The two of them like to run each other ragged, sprinting up and down the fence line together with reckless abandon for hours.

Normally your canine would already be out here with you, but he has a penchant for rolling in freshly tilled dirt, so you’ve kept him inside under Aunt Robin’s supervision while you did your planting. The hound dog seems disgruntled by this fact, continuing to pace and making a series of upset sounds at you. You murmur a “Sorry pup,” as you gather up your tools and move on to another section of the garden where you’d spotted some weeds poking up through the mocha brown mulch. He’ll just have to get over his disappointment.

You turn your back, plucking at the offending weeds as his pouting cries go quiet. You assume he’s gone back to being a nuisance to the people in his own yard until a loud bark shatters the quiet hum of insects and softly spoken chatter from Frankie’s deck. A cacophony of voices rise in alarm as you swivel back just in time to see Alamo take a flying leap over the chain link, paws nearly grazing the top as he crests to the other side. His body makes a soft whump as he lands in the grass.

“Jesus!” you shout at the sight of it before the dog is bearing down on you, his wet nose snuffling at your ankles as you try to grab a hold of him. He skirts from your grasp, backing away a few feet before leaning into a bow, rump raised playfully in the air as his tail swishes furiously behind him. You crouch and try to summon him to you, “What’s gotten into you, hm?”

Frankie stares, dumbfounded, for only a moment before he’s jogging in your direction to help. When the dog refuses to come to you, you step towards him instead, but he bolts at your approach. Meanwhile, your neighbor scrambles over the fence and into your yard much less gracefully than his pet. His brows furrow in irritation as he tries to sneak up on him, but the dog turns at the last second, spotting him and darting away as Frankie curses, “Alamo! ¡Maldito perro! Get your ass over here!”

The hound likes this game of cat and mouse since it means the both of you are now giving him your full attention as you pursue him through the grass. Baiting you in by letting you get mere inches from him before he zips off at the last second.

“Mo!” you holler and he turns his head back at the use of his nickname but doesn’t slow down as you continue to follow him, “This is my side of the fence, not yours. Get over here!”

He’s unfettered by your statement, slipping through Frankie’s fingers as he loops back around the yard, stopping briefly to jump on your back door and paw at the glass. The excitement of it all has drawn Frankie’s company from the deck for a closer look and your aunt to the door to watch it unfold. You see Gatsby from the corner of your eye, fogging up the glass as his snotty nose presses against it. You can hear him whine, displeased that you’re out there having fun without him.

“Honey?” Aunt Robin asks through the screen of the door, “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine, Auntie,” you reply with a breathless huff, side-eying Frankie as he dives unsuccessfully towards his dog again, “Alamo just...came for a visit.”

He moves beside you, leaning onto his knees to recover from the chase, as Alamo pauses several feet from the two of you, grumbling an apology, “Sorry about this.”

“Not your fault he’s a pain in the ass,” you smirk, trying to form some kind of game plan to lure him in, “We could try to bribe him?”

Frankie gives you a nod as you quick-step towards the house. You keep treats on a shelf just inside the door as a reward for Gatsby when he does his business and doesn’t destroy any of Aunt Robin’s flowers. The pup in question is still watching you through the glass, alone now that your aunt has confirmed nothing is amiss, and returned to the other room.

“Back up Gats,” you warn, cracking the door open just enough to reach into the box without giving the Goldendoodle space to escape. Alamo hasn’t missed out on this though, yapping at him in an effort to incite his friend to join him in terrorizing you and Frankie. Which successfully spurs Gatsby on. He wedges himself against your legs, pushing with his full weight until you are stumbling back and he is barging out the door. You let out a sigh as you walk back to Frankie’s side, “And now there’s two.”

The both of them are running laps through your yard, letting out barks and yips and playful growls as they zip by at breakneck speed. Frankie takes a lunge towards Alamo as he passes by, but his reflexes aren’t a match for the canine. The hound easily avoids him at the last second, but Gatsby doesn’t pick up on his friend’s detour soon enough to do the same, trying to zip between Frankie’s slightly splayed legs and knocking him off balance. He throws his arms out for stability and you instinctively reach for him, but it only ends up in throwing him further off-kilter as his weight pulls you both down.

Frankie lets out an aggravated groan as his back slams into the ground, having tried to twist in a way that his body ends up as a buffer between you and the dirt. He takes the brunt of the fall, as you end up half across his chest, your head knocking hard into his chin. He tilts his head to look you over as you sit up, rubbing softly at the crown of your skull, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, brushing your hair out of your face. He watches as it cascades over your shoulder, dogs forgotten, as he’s struck by the thought of how easy it might be from this position to curl his fingers in the strands at the nape of your neck and pull you down to kiss him. Curious about what your skin might taste like if he were to pepper kisses down your jaw and lave at the pulse point of your neck.

His eyes bore into yours, rich orbs of hickory blazed with amber flecks as the sun catches in the iris. He smells of spicy cologne, charcoal smoke, and sweat. You give him the softest smile as you glimpse briefly at his lips and wonder if they’re as warm and soft as they look. Then up to his mop of curls that have come loose from underneath his cap in the fall. You briefly consider trying to twist them into ringlets like you’ve done with his daughter's hair, just as someone nearby clears their throat loudly. You both look up to see Benny leaning on one of the fence posts, a cheesy grin scrawled across his face.

“Fish!” He prods at his friend, “If you wanted to sweep her off of her feet, there are better ways to do it.”

“Fuck you, Benjamin,” Frankie spits as he flips him the bird, rolling onto his side before standing, his back and knees complaining at the effort. His other friends, at least, had the decency to keep their teasing comments to themselves. He leans down and offers you a hand up before scooping his hat off the ground and replacing it on his head. The dogs are still completely caught up in their game, tearing playfully through your backyard. He doesn’t want to impose on you, but after that last disastrous attempt, he doesn’t want to try and wrangle Alamo again until the furry beast has gotten this burst of energy out of his system. He pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he glances back to you, “Can he just, I dunno, stay over here until he gets bored? I’m too old to be chasing him all over hell and back. I’ll come back for him after he wears himself out.”

“I don’t think Aunt Robin will mind,” you agree with a small shrug of your shoulder, just as resigned to let them entertain themselves as he is. You’ll just have to go back to weeding the garden and gazing longingly into his yard. You try not to let your disappointment read on your face, plastering on a teasing smile as you motion towards the fence, “Are you planning on hopping back over that way, or do you want to go the long way this time?”

“I’ll go around please,” Frankie chuckles quietly, “My back can’t take any more abuse.”

Leaving the dogs to their own devices, you walk side-by-side with him towards the back door. You lead him through the house and out the front, a silent wave to your aunt as the two of you pass by. Just out of the front door he turns to you suddenly. He stumbles on the words for a moment, pink tongue peeking out between his lips before he speaks, “Listen, do you, maybe, want to come over for a bit? I at least owe you a drink for putting up with my menace of a dog. I promise the company isn’t terrible either. Benny’s a pain but the rest of them are decent enough.”

You beam him one of your million-watt smiles at the offer, “I’d love that! Let me just pop back in to let my aunt know.”

His eyes follow you as you disappear back inside, heart fit to burst. He’s not sure what this is between the two of you or where it might go, but this seems as good a first step as any.

----- Chapter Two -----

EVERYTHING TAGLIST: @green-socks @dihra-vesa @patternedlantern @writeforfandoms @ezrasbirdie @salome-c @kirsteng42

FRANKIE TAGLIST: @thegreenkid

MSOTF TAGLIST: @javierpinme @frankie-catfish-morales

He stands to fire again; aiming blind through the smoke and the haze swallowing the city. Eyes burning from the white-hot flash that bursts from the end of his rifle before he dives back behind cover. The unseen enemy volleys back as the concrete crumbles around him. A grenade lands mere feet away that has him and every man around him scrambling for safety.

It explodes. He feels glancing pain in his legs. His shoulder. His left cheek. A series of burning sharp bites that will forever pockmark his flesh with rivers and valleys of scars if he survives this skirmish.

Someone shouts, “Fall back!” as his team retreats across an abandoned roadway towards the waiting helo that is their current exit strategy. A larger explosion quakes the earth and rains debris on him. He falls behind, the path blocked by collapsing buildings and he’s forced to watch the helo lift off without him. Bristling, he shouts questions into his radio: Why the hell is he being left dirtside? And who the fuck is flying his bird? Answers he doesn’t get as he rushes through shifting rubble towards another extraction point. Where he can rendezvous with the guys and get the fuck home.

The soft plod of his boots on concrete and sand twists into a sickening crunch beneath his feet. He looks around in abject horror. The half-collapsed stairwell he’d been climbing is now made of decomposing bodies. Built from the corpses of every man he’s ever killed. The smell is vile and the air is thick with a cloud of flies that buzz around him to bite at his open wounds as he ascends. The mangled limbs of the dead grab for his ankles and his clothes become soaked in the stinking bile of their spilled viscera; bones snapping and flesh squelching with each step.

He forces himself not to vomit as he crests on a wide landing, the lifeless husks below him giving way to damp, mossy earth as he steps out into a forest of lichen-covered trees. Soul-deep exhaustion seeps into him along with the drizzle of rain. He pauses only long enough to lift his cap and card his filthy fingers through the wet tangles of his hair. He doesn’t remember changing from his DCU to civvies and a bulletproof vest. He just knows he has to meet up with the boys. Has to get back to his baby girl. Inching his way uphill while something lurks at the edge of his peripherals.

In the span of a breath, the air shifts from humid to icy cold and the forest fades away. His face feels raw and windburned. His lips are chapped. At some point, a dirt-brown mule began to sidle alongside him. Who knows where it came from? A black duffel is slung across its back, unzipped to reveal piles of loose cash inside. A frigid squall blows in and gusts the bills away, but he makes no move to catch them. Merely cranes his head to watch them flutter in the breeze until the bag is empty.

He sighs, heavy-hearted, and rubs at his bleary eyes. The open ground before him morphs into a narrow cliffside as the world comes back into focus. He manages to stumble back, catching himself hard against the rocky wall behind him. The mule doesn’t stop, cantering off the precipice before he can even think to stop it. It lets out a horrifying bray as it careens towards the jagged earth below. He can’t catch his breath, clutching his chest as his heart hammers against his ribcage. Terrified, but alive. He needs to get off this goddamned mountain.

“If you want to get to the ocean,” a raspy voice shouts overhead, “you gotta get over the fucking Andes, man!”

He identifies it as his own even though the sound didn’t come from his throat. Disembodied and taunting him from afar. He side-steps swiftly down the path until it widens back into a safer trail. Craggy rocks on a snowy peak that finally slopes down instead of up. It can’t be far now. His rendezvous. His team. He’s sure he can hear the gulls on the coast. He just has to get past this outcropping of rocks.

Clambering over a massive boulder, it’s not the ocean he finds. It’s a far more nauseating sight. It wasn’t gulls he heard, but carrion birds that circle the burning wreckage of his helo. A net full of money blazes beside it, billowing black smoke into a crystal clear sky. Not that he gives a shit about the cash. His sole focus is the bodies lying near the burnt-out helo, that the vultures hope to have as their next meal.

He charges forward, waving his arms menacingly as he shouts and pitches stones at them until they scatter. Only then does he take the first tremulous steps towards the four men lying stone still in the dirt. Nostrils flaring with unfocused rage as he checks each one for signs of life, only to find none. His best friends are all gone.

Redfly.

Ironhead.

Benny.

Pope.

The crash wasn’t what killed them, though.

No.

They met a far more brutal end. A still weeping bullet hole decorates each of their skulls. Their faces twisted into their final macabre expressions. Whatever bastard did this didn’t even have the balls to close their eyes. Soulless orbs that stare into nothingness as a wail of rage rips through him.

“Too quick on the trigger,” his own voice sneers again. This time it isn’t calling from the void but from the mouth of a blood-splattered doppelgänger that emerges from the smoke. This other-Frankie has a pistol trained on him already and he reaches for the rifle that is suddenly not there. He stands slow, his hands balled into fists as the other-him meets his gaze with an accusatory glower, “You know it and I know it. You killed these people.”

His reaction is one of aggression and pure adrenaline. Ducking low, he charges the other-him, a feral snarl tearing from his throat as he body slams his opponent. It’s a blurry entanglement as they hit the hard earth simultaneously and struggle for control of the weapon. A flurry of fists and knees and teeth that only ends with a sudden pop of gunfire that jolts him awake. He comes to with his chest heaving and his fingers twisted in his sweaty sheets.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing at his face in an attempt to chase away the burn of cordite and iron tang of blood that clings in his nostrils. Rolling to his side and squinting at the red glow of the alarm clock beside the bed. It’s too damn early to be awake, but he knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep after that shit show in the theater of his mind. He groans as he sits up, spine cracking and knees popping as he throws off his blanket and reaches for a rumpled pair of sweatpants on the floor. His house is dark, save for a dim light over the kitchen sink as he creeps towards his daughter’s room.

He hasn’t woken up screaming in a while. Most of his night terrors just leave him frozen in place, murmuring terrified words into his pillow as his brain conjures terrible images to haunt him. Still, it distresses him to think that he might have made some noise or another in the dark that would have scared his baby girl awake. Tonight, that worry abates as he peers through her open door to find her sleeping soundly. She is the picture of serenity, tucked beneath her Doc McStuffin blanket with one arm draped around Alamo, puffing small breaths into his fur. The dog blinks at him before burrowing more closely into her side, her staunch protector from the monsters under the bed.

Gazing at Vivi again, his anxious heart settles. She soothes him even on his worst days. Even with his nightmare still fresh and picking away at his sanity. The voice of his conscience, which sounds remarkably like Ironhead, tells him that he needs to talk about this with his therapist. It won’t prevent him from another nightmare in the future, but it might help him understand them. To stop letting them eat away at him in the quietest hours of his day.

He’s told her all she could ever need to know about his time in the military and the things he did at the behest of Uncle Sam, but not about Colombia. The goddamn Andes. The innocent lives he took for the sake of some dirty fucking cash that he didn’t even keep in the end. Three years later and he’s still too much of a coward to talk about it. It’s the one topic he just can’t broach, even though the therapy has helped him process so much of the other shit from his screwed-up past. He can’t. Not when he still believes he’s to blame for Tom’s death. Too quick on the trigger.

He can’t dwell on that nagging thought now, though. It’s too heavy for a Thursday morning when he’s got to deal with his job and the housework and to take care of Viviana. He’s got ways of working it from his system. Probably not what his therapist would recommend but they work well enough for now. Breezing out of the city and hiking his favorite trails until his legs ache and his knees feel ready to give out. Or spending an afternoon sparring with Benny. Good practice for the kid and it lets him vent the frustration he feels by way of his fists. He’s just got to make it to the weekend first.

Methodically, he prepares himself for the long day ahead. The coffee pot burbles with a strong, dark roast coffee as he showers. The sweat and stench of his nightmare washing down the drain, replaced by the clean scent of his bar soap. Back in the kitchen, he sips from the scalding brew in his mug as he packs up Vivi’s daycare bag. Filling it with everything she might need, including extra snacks and a lunch box of her favorite foods. It’s something he always does after a rough night. There’s something about doting on her with little things that bring her joy that seem to have that feeling return to him tenfold when she rushes happily into his arms at the end of the day. He can only hope that she never puts the connection together. An event he knows, logically, is only a few years off. When she’ll start asking him about things he dreads having to answer.

It’s a process he’s got worked out quite precisely. Dressed in a beige flight suit and nursing his third cup of coffee all while the day still lingers in the pre-dawn hours. With little else to do until his girl awakes, he drifts out onto the front porch. Cool morning air washes over his skin as he flops into a patio chair, waiting for the sun to rise over the neighborhood. He knows in just an hour or so, the block will come to life. College kids heading out to an early class and frazzled parents hauling their kids to school or daycare before work. Soon you will wander over, armed with hair doodads and fruity detangling spray to tame his daughter’s wild curls.

He hopes you won’t ask about the dark circles under his eyes or the way exhaustion makes his shoulders sag. You’ve seen a lot of the inner workings of his life in the last few months, but he’s kept the nastier bits out of sight. The imperfect cracks in his façade that reveal the darkness lurking inside. A creature that slithers away at the sparkle of Vivi’s laughter or the glimmer of your smile, but prowls in the shadows where that light doesn’t touch. Ready to sink its claws in and tear away at his soul.

Since his divorce, more than one woman has been content to share his company, but only when all they saw was the quiet, humble man at the surface. Once the lights turned off and the mask fell away, it was too much for them. Shattering him and leaving him to glue the pieces back together all alone. So now he’s cautious. Overly so, according to the boys. Still, there’s something kind and disarming in the way you are with him that says “maybe this time,” but he can’t quite commit to letting you in.

He sighs, taking a swig of his bitter black coffee. He lets the liquid sit on his tongue before he gulps it down. His hopeful heart warring with his pragmatic mind and he doesn’t have the energy right now to fence them into their own territories. This morning they can duke it out while he admires how the sky brightens in pastel shades of lavender and peach as the first golden rays of dawn peek above the horizon.

Frankie really is a gorgeous man. Even loitering in the middle of the breakfast food aisle of the local Publix, he’s a standout figure. Tall and broad-shouldered as he stares thoughtfully at the back of a box of cereal, reading through the ingredients. You’ve noticed at least three other women take an appraising look at him while he stands there, oblivious. Admiring the lean lines of his torso and the bulge of his biceps beneath his shirt sleeves.

Not that you aren’t guilty of doing just that yourself. Absorbing all of him with a sweep of your eyes. You enjoy watching him in these moments where he’s blurred out the rest of the world. The deep, contemplative expression on his face as he tries to find any real difference between the Cinnamon Toast Crunch his daughter adores and the store brand Cinnacrunch Squares she snubs her nose at. A difference that isn’t that the name brand costs more.

Lost in the world of his own thoughts, he seems more genuine. Not that you think Frankie is ever deceptive or disingenuous. He’s naturally honest and it’s easy to spot his tells because he really is a terrible liar. But he's guarded. As you’ve gotten to know each other, he’s readily offered up the lighter parts of himself, but as soon as you touch on any of the grittier bits of his past, his defenses go up. A sudden shift in his posture and expression. A forced smile and a change in topic that steers you away from whatever nerve you grazed. You’ll never press for more than he’s willing to give, but you hope that one day he could trust you enough to share whatever it is that he hides from sight.

He huffs loudly, carding a hand through his mocha brown locks. Long fingers ruffling the soft curls that twist at his ears and temples. Fluffy tendrils sprung free from the confines of his favorite Standard Oil hat. It’s found a temporary home perched crookedly on his daughter’s too-small head as she sits in the grocery cart beside you. A mismatch to her salmon pink peplum tee and floral patterned leggings. Not that she cares one lick. It belongs to Papa and that’s all that matters. If it’s his, it’s special.

You hear her father make another small sound of irritation, nearly inaudible over the rhythmic beat of the nineties hits blaring from the store speakers and the murmurs of other shoppers further down the aisle. Vivi is thoroughly invested in the episode of Cocomelon playing a touch too loudly on her tablet, so you boop her nose and stride over to him to see if you can help at all.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed your approach as he rubs a palm through the stubble along his jaw. Sprinkled with gray hairs that only enhance his rugged features. He exudes a laid-back charm that is perfectly in line with his easy-going personality. You can’t help but imagine how nice it would feel to scrape your nails through the coarse hair and plant soft kisses into the bare patches near his chin. Your hopeless crush on him has only grown into a deep-seated yearning. An attachment that chips away at the wall that separates your simple friendship from something more.

How could it not? When every week now follows the path of an intertwining routine you’ve both built. A gentle ebb and flow into each other’s lives.

Monday movie nights and dinners together almost every evening.

Grocery store trips every other Thursday because he insists that your presence is the only thing that keeps his daughter from having a meltdown while he shops.

Friday afternoons dedicated to the yard work. He mows. You weed the flower beds. Vivi gets lost in cartoons for a few hours until dinner. If he goes out with his friends for the night, you watch his baby girl so he doesn’t have to pay for a sitter. Though, as of late, the guys have been rather insistent that you come along too. Downing shitty beer in a ratty booth at their favorite dive bar. Teaming up with Laura and Jojo to relentlessly tease Benny or Santi, since Will and Frankie are too unflappable even after a few drinks.

Sundays became a lazy, lethargic affair. Picnics made of leftovers and iced tea take place on the plush grass of his back lawn. The two of you soaking in the hazy afternoon sun. Lying beside him on a threadbare quilt while he plucks at the stubborn dandelions that always seem to grow back no matter what. Aunt Robin listens with amusement as he complains that the ground is too hard on his messed up back and knees. Laughing with her when he refuses to get up again to bring down a more comfortable chair from the deck. The dogs disappear in a flash to the neighboring yard to escape Viviana, as she chases after them with princess tiaras and superhero costumes they don’t want to wear. Easy to do now that Frankie has built a set of wooden stairs that makes a passage over the fence. His ingenious idea meant to keep Alamo from attempting any more daredevil stunts. They hide behind one of the giant Rhododendron bushes in Aunt Robin’s garden and nap while you all try to soothe Vivi as she pouts about not being allowed to follow them.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder to get his attention. His eyes, more toffee than chocolate under the glow of the fluorescent store lights, flash your way as you shake him from his thoughts, “I promise there is no major difference between those two boxes beside the packaging.”

“So why won’t she eat this one?” he shakes the store brand at you casually.

“Because you spoil her,” you muse with a cheeky grin. He’s always so good to his little girl. He hates to tell her no and feels immediately guilty whenever he has to raise his voice to her. He’s not a wealthy man, but you’re pretty sure she could ask for the moon and Frankie would find a way to get it for her, “Just put the generic one in an old name brand box. She’ll never know.”

“Will that work?” he questions a little incredulously, as you take the box of Cinnacrunch Squares from his hands and sneak it into the back of the cart with a conspiratorial wink.

“It worked on my siblings and me growing up,” you shrug as you move back to the front of the cart, leaning onto the handle. His hat keeps slipping over Vivi’s eyes, so you swipe it off her head and hand it back to him, unable to resist stroking your fingers through her silky strands to fix the messy tendrils gone askew. She has her father’s dark curly hair and you wonder if his walnut locks would feel the same beneath your palm, “My folks raised five kids on a very tight budget. One of my brothers didn’t catch on to the trick until he was in college,” before you press a brief kiss at her temple, “but she’s much smarter than he is.”

You start to playfully pepper her small face with kisses as she squeals in delight. It leaves Frankie pinned in place, heart fit to burst, as he watches you smother her in your adoration. Until she’s red in the face from laughter and pushing you away gently with a polite, “No please!” before you finally relent.

He’s so grateful for you. For how you’ve entangled your life into theirs to help him with her. She wasn’t even a year old when her mother left her, and although Laura and Jojo have tried to help, their busy lives make it difficult. So, she hasn’t had any kind of consistent female presence in her life until you came along.

Playtime over, you swivel your attention back to him, summoning him closer with a wave as you tug your phone from your pocket. Since you eat dinner together most nights, it’s just easier to share a shopping list and to separate other items when you get home. He leans in as you pull up the app, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder as he reads your screen. You try not to shiver as his warm breath ghosts over your skin, goosebumps prickling up beneath the fabric of your blouse.

Your heart flutters as he reaches over to scroll the page back to the top. He reads the list aloud, his rumbling baritone in your ear: dog food, bread and butter pickles for Aunt Robin, and a few more ingredients for the tamales he’s promised to teach you how to make. His abuela’s recipe. Both of you think the app is a vast improvement to his handwritten lists with their barely legible chicken scratch, but it’s moments like this that you wish he’d install it on his phone too. Not that you aren’t enjoying the way the heat rolls off his body and into your skin, but the last thing you need is to pass out from heart palpitations in the middle of the grocery store.

Thankfully, he steps away as he organizes the items in his head, working out a mental route. He walks on ahead, guiding the front of the cart with one hand as the three of you push forward around the corner. He tilts his head back your way, “We should end up right at the checkout lanes if we plot this right.”

“Sounds good to me,” you beam warmly. You’d let him lead you anywhere.

Frankie will probably never tell you, but he adores that you’re so involved in his life now. That it came so easily, for you and for him. These so-called moments of domestic bliss. Where mundane tasks like shopping trips and household chores and uneventful days feel like an adventure. They’d always been monotonous things before, that carried him from one day to the next. So, it left him feeling a sense of awe when he realized that he thinks of them that way now that you are there sharing them with him. That even with his reluctance to let you in closer, your mere presence is leading him towards the kind of joy he believes he was screwed out of by life.

He remembers when he was a much younger man, stuck in endless months of deployment in the scorching heat of a bone-dry desert or the humid sweat-slick soup of the jungle, how he had imagined what his future would be like post-contract: a real bed and a loving woman to share it with him, building a home filled with happiness and a bunch of kids that looked like him. It was unfortunate that the reality of it was nothing like he’d dreamed.

Even now, thinking about his short marriage leaves an ache in his chest. One he tries to fight off as you duck down to grab a bag of masa flour from a low shelf. Where you can’t see his brief grimace or how one of his hand's balls up so tightly his fingernails cut into his palm. When you stand, he tries to relax, leaning over to nuzzle the crown of his daughter’s head. It appears to you as an act of a loving father, but really he’s trying to anchor himself to the present with the scent of her strawberry shampoo. As memories bubble to the surface; melancholic incidents that are coated in cocaine and regret.

Joining the army had been an act of impulse. The choice of a twenty-something boy with the foolhardy belief in the honor of serving God and country. His mother had cried and his father had yelled and he’d stormed out of the house because they just hadn’t understood why he enlisted. He’d wound up at a Greyhound station in the middle of the afternoon, intending to stay the weekend with a cousin in Tampa. That was where he met Shannon, as she got off a bus from Myrtle Beach.

He never went to Tampa and the relationship that came from that clandestine meeting would turn into a messy on-and-off-again affair as he went through boot camp and the deployments that followed. Where she would write him letters with naughty pictures inside and share heated phone calls with him, while he knew full well there were other men in her bed back home, but he didn’t care because that connection was like a lifeline as he went through misery overseas. Where they fell together in the brevity of his dwell time, fucking like horny teenagers until he got sucked back into the hell of the next tour.

She was beautiful. Wild and free-spirited. A liberating high for a serviceman who was living for the moment until he was thrust back into the risky, regimented life of a soldier. Then he came home for good, as a veteran with blood on his hands and haunted by the nightmares of war. He was different, but she had not changed. A loose cannon with an aversion to commitment that clashed with his newfound ache for normality and peace in his civilian life.

But like all his worst habits, he couldn’t quit her, existing in a dance of not-quite love for a long time. Left freefalling by the shitty mental health support provided by the VA, he sought her as a balm for the things that plagued him, but she didn’t want to hear them either. So, he chased his demons away with lines of coke as their faulty relationship grew tepid and stagnant as their wants for life further drifted apart. Where she only came around to scratch a carnal itch and have him fill her ears with sweet praises while he was hilt deep inside her. Dragging the remnants of it along on limping limbs because they cared just enough about one another to not let it completely wither and die.

Then Shan got pregnant. The result of a hazy weekend of alcohol and cocaine and failed protection. When she told him the news, it was apprehension and not excitement that found him. A sudden feeling that, like his helo abruptly losing altitude mid-flight, was pitching him towards the dirt as he struggled to take corrective actions to survive. How could he take care of a baby when he was hardly taking care of himself?

A stint in rehab got him clean but left him grasping for support again once he was kicked back into the real world. Shan’s crappy retail job cut her hours, making it impossible for her to pay rent or have medical coverage. They leapt into a shotgun wedding at the courthouse, already knowing it was a mistake, but they did it anyway. He wanted to make sure she could be on his insurance and she wanted to appease her overly conservative parents.

It wasn’t a bad marriage, but there was little good in it either. It was lonely. Unhappy. The dismal reminder that it wasn’t driven by love but necessity hovered between them like a thick gray fog. A shroud of misery that clung to their shoulders, overshadowing even the joy of Viviana’s birth. He’d naively hoped that with time it could get better. That it would improve as they grew and adjusted into their life together, but it didn’t.

Shan had never wanted to be a mother. For as long as he had known her she was adamant that she had no maternal drive like other women. She’d carried his daughter and brought her into the world not because she changed her mind, but because she knew he had wanted the baby. That even though he would not have faulted her for choosing otherwise, it would have hurt him and Shan had not wanted to do that. But it had meant that afterward, she had little inclination to care for the tiny girl she’d birthed.

When they were both at home, he bore the brunt of parental responsibility. Otherwise, Viviana was promptly delivered to Shan’s mother, Donna, while his wife disappeared to see friends and do any number of things he felt he couldn’t ask her about. It was obvious from the beginning that he would be in this alone. It was probably too much for one man to handle himself, but he did everything he could to keep his fragile family afloat, even at the expense of his mental health.

Then he found a long-forgotten baggie buried in the back of his tool chest, took one hit from it before regretting it and tossed the rest in the nearest narcotics drop-box. But the damage was done. He pissed hot, his pilot’s license was suspended, and he went with Pope and the boys on that godforsaken mission to Colombia in some misguided attempt to fix his shit. Only to come home with new scars, a dead friend, and his wife concluding that their sham of a marriage needed to end.

“I’m sorry Francisco,” she had told him at the end of it all. A packed-up suitcase at her feet as she stood on the front porch of the house that had never been a home to her. The ink still drying on their divorce papers as she wiped away the tears that streaked silently down his face, “We had a good run but all we’re doing is making each other miserable. I can’t keep doing that to you.”

The dissolution of it all still left a bitter taste in his mouth when he thought too hard about it, even though his therapist had helped him to realize that the divorce was probably the best thing he and Shan could have done for each other. For Viviana. Despite all the other bullshit that followed after it. The scars he’d been left with, like the ones he’d earned in combat, were thick and ugly, and he wasn’t sure there was anybody that would be able to get through the mottled flesh of it all.

And yet, here you were doing just that. Burrowing beneath the hardened epidermis to get at the pulsing veins of who he was. It was more than Shan had tried to do. More than the other women who left when the ugliness came out. They could tell you all the things he could do with his cock and mouth and fingers. But nothing about what was below the surface. It was all sex and no depth.

Yes, he sometimes fisted himself, thinking of the ways he could make you pant and sigh for him. He was no stranger to carnal want, but there was an altogether different desire that pulled at him too. One that ached for more ordinary days with you. A craving that eclipsed bodily pleasure for something that fed right into his soul. You were just different. Resonating with him on the same frequency. Sharing a love of classic books and history documentaries. Vintage band tees and classic rock. Camping trips and midnight stargazing.

Not only did you care about him and Viviana, but you also extended that concern to his friends. You picked up small, inconsequential details about them that surprised him. Catering to Benny’s sweet tooth with sugary baked goods. Going toe-to-toe with Pope at trivia games, because you discovered that beneath his cocky veneer he likes to have his intelligence challenged. Transplanting some flowers that grew along his back deck to the furthest edge of the yard, because Ironhead had mentioned once that the pollen and ragweed set off his allergies. Drinking wine with Laura at the bar because she didn’t care for beer, but didn’t like finishing a bottle by herself. Or making sure there was more than just a salad as a vegetarian option for Jojo when you helped him prep for their cookouts.

All of them had noticed it too. The way he let you in. How you were more than just his neighbor and friend, a staple in his life but not his lover either. You certainly were his something. An undefinable factor they had yet to figure out. The boys, especially, teased and cajoled him to put a name to it, in the way that only best friends could. Still, they didn’t go through the heartaches that he had or felt the fear he did about it. They didn’t live with the anxiety of trying to gauge what you might say or do if he revealed those dark, ugly pieces of himself. Wondering how you would react to the fact that he’s a recovered drug addict. That some nights he screams himself awake because his demons have reared their heads while he slept. That there is innocent blood on his hands he can never wash away. He’s not sure he could handle it if you saw the monster behind the man and you ran as all the other women did.

So, while his heart prods at him to just leap at the chance that’s been offered up to him, his overthinking brain shouts more loudly that there’s no reason to do it so soon. That this something is safe and comfortable for now. That there’s no need to change course unless necessity demands it.

“Hey, you okay?” you ask him, sotto voce, with a gentle touch to his arm that pulls him back from the confines of his mind with a sharp inhale. There’s a soft look of concern etched across your features as you watch him, a far-off brooding expression that melts away to something more at ease as he drinks you in with his warm gaze. The rhythm of his heartbeat drumming beneath the pressure of your fingers, “I mentioned that we’ve got everything checked off our list, and you sort of looked right through me.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his own large hand falling over yours and squeezing it in return, “I-It’s been a long day and I must have gotten lost in thought.”

You know that it’s more than that. You can tell by the feeble grin that crooks up in one corner of his mouth as he tries to play it off. The quiet tremor at the beginning of his statement that hints at a truth he means to hide. He’s been more guarded today than usual, an aura of weariness that you’ve only seen a handful of times. It's instinctual, the way you step a little closer and rest your other hand just over his heart. Your response to him is a hushed whisper as it falls from your mouth, “It’s all right.”

That statement should signal the end of this lingering touch that crackles electrically beneath your skin and his, but the silence that follows your words seem to carry it on with an innervated intensity. Fading out your surroundings until the only thing you notice is him. The way his intelligent eyes examine you closely. His hand squeezing yours a little more tightly. The comfortable weight of his palm on your skin and the steady thrum of his pulse in his wrist. It would be so easy to adjust your hold on him. To let your palm slide into his and lock his calloused fingers in your grip. Or to shift your stance to lean into his body. To rest your temple against the flat planes of his chest and mold yourself into the soft mound of his tummy. You wonder what he might do if you did, as you inhale the tang of jet fuel and motor oil that clings to his flight suit, muddled with the spicy hint of the cologne he always spritzes on to mask it.

You’re so tempted, but you don’t move. It’s not about sating your own desires. It’s about offering Frankie the comfort of your presence. So the two of you just exist in that breath of a moment, until reality breaks back in with a snap.

Vivi whines when the next episode of her show won’t play. Another shopper drops their phone with an echoing clatter at the end of the aisle. A voice crackles in from the speakers overhead, requesting another clerk for the backed-up checkout lanes.

You and he drift apart slowly. First, his hand slips off of yours as he maneuvers to take charge of the cart. You follow his movement, chasing his warmth as your fingers skate across his chest and down his arm until the gap between you is too wide to keep in contact. You blink sluggishly, trying to parse how much time you just lost as you work to help his daughter sort out the issue with her tablet.

It’s oddly quiet for a few minutes, as he navigates your trio towards the registers. You surreptitiously glance at him, watching as he settles his shoulders and schools his features into neutrality. A tinge of pink in his ears as he clears his throat to speak and deflect, “Benny’s got a fight next Friday.”

“Really?” you question simply, hoping the brief reply masks the waver in your voice. Why he locks up like this you may never know, but you don’t want him to see that it bothers you when he does. You’re just glad he doesn’t shut you out entirely. One day, maybe, he will be an open book, letting you scan through his pages with ease. Until then, you’ll let him move at his own pace. You duck your head, handing Vivi back her gadget as you try to keep him talking, “Do you think he’ll win?”

He flashes you a boyish smile that pulls a dimple in his cheek and noticeably relaxes as you accept that he’s changed the subject, stating “Who knows,” as he shrugs and continues, “He thinks you should come and see it live instead of just some YouTube clips of him getting his lights knocked out,” followed by a breathy chuckle, “Pretty sure that golden retriever is just hoping you’ll make him sympathy cookies if he loses. You know how he is.”

“It sounds like fun,” you remark, “Jojo’s told me that nothing beats being there in person.”

“It gets pretty crowded, lots of traffic in and out,” he mentions, sliding behind you to start stacking items onto the belt, hand grazing across your hip as he squeezes by, “I can drive...if you want?”

“No, that makes sense,” you agree, your eyes meeting his questioning chocolate orbs, “No point in taking two cars when we live next door to one another, right?”

“Yeah,” Frankie nods, tearing his eyes away as he grabs more things from the cart. It’s not long before all of the groceries are scanned, bagged, and piled back inside. He tugs the trolley forward, giving you room to get to the card reader. The two of you take turns paying for the lot each trip. It’s just easier this way and saves time in the end when his little girl gets antsy to escape the cart.

Like today, as she’s tugging at her father’s arms and pouting to walk on her own now that they are done. You rush to pass the clerk your stack of coupons, swipe your card, and punch in your PIN so you can get on your way. The clerk smiles and hands you your receipt and you thank her for the help. Vivi’s halfway to a meltdown when you finally sweep her out of the seat and give her a spin before you set her down, offering her your outstretched palm, “You can walk to the truck with me, kiddo.”

“Okay!” she beams at you, latching on as you stride towards the exit together. Frankie just stares, lagging behind with the cart as you stroll ahead of him. He can’t help but watch you. Not only so he can observe the way you gleefully swing his daughter’s arm with your own, but so he can drink in all of you from a distance. The cascade of your hair as you do a silly dance with her. The curves of your body as you sashay your hips. The bow of your lips as they tick up into a Cheshire cat grin and the laughter pealing from your dainty throat when Vivi makes a goofy face at you.

The sight of it makes warmth bloom inside his chest. In the same way that the blossoms in his garden have burst back to life from your care, you have taken his wilted heart and begun to nurse it back to health with your smiles and your sweetness. He has to take a centering breath when he feels it, to temper the hopefulness that shimmers there, before he goes to catch up with both of you.

“Excuse me, sir,” a stranger calls, the accompanying tap on his shoulder tearing his focus from his girls. He turns to face the teenage bagger from the checkout lane. The gangly young man extends his arm, holding out a cell phone that Frankie quickly identifies as yours. He accepts it from the teen as he continues, “Your wife left it when she paid and we didn’t want you to leave without it.”

Frankie blinks, barely getting out a gruff, “Thanks,” before the boy returns to his job. He stares at the empty space where he stood for a moment before his eyes drift back to you, where you wait by the door for him. Wife. The word swirls in his ears and he thinks that it has an utterly divine ring to it, before you beam the most outstanding smile at him. It steals his breath and the hope he just tamped down bangs at the confines of its prison.

----- Chapter Three -----

FOOTNOTE

DCU: Desert Combat Uniform. Used by the United States Armed Forces from the mid-1990s to the early 2010s.

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EVERYTHING TAGLIST: @green-socks @dihra-vesa @patternedlantern @writeforfandoms @ezrasbirdie @salome-c @kirsteng42 @diaryofkali @voteforpedro09 @blackmarketmummy @sarahjkl82-blog @likes-good-reblogs-even-better @gracie7209 @you-got-me-starry-eyed @mamacitapascal @athalien @absurdthirst @javierpinme @littlemisspascal @frankiemoraleswifexo

FRANKIE TAGLIST: @thegreenkid @xxxroxsxxx @maryfanson @thirddeadlysin @yessie82 @dindjarinsloverx

MSOTF TAGLIST: @frankie-catfish-morales @littlemissoblivious @headinthestarz @dobbyjen

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Reaching across her desk, you snatch up one of the peppermints from a fishbowl-shaped candy dish. It's not much but you figure it can coerce your stomach back into silence for a little while longer.

You tap out a one-handed text message to her as you unwrap the sweet with your teeth and pop it into your mouth.

YOU: I’m starving...How much longer will you be?

You roll the mint across your tongue as it slowly starts to dissolve in your mouth, set your phone down next to her keyboard, and swivel in the chair to take in the room. It’s a small but swanky personal office with wooden storage cabinets by the door and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built-in on either side of a large window behind the desk. The view of the city from the upper floors of Heroics Headquarters is stunning as you watch the late setting sun paint the sky in hues of bronze, honey gold, and garnet. The buildings splashed across the skyline are cast in a black silhouette against the glow. You’re fortunate to be able to take in such a sight after a day tucked in the dungeon that was the research and development laboratory.

Your phone buzzes with a new notification, Julie’s reply, and the two of you have a quick exchange.

JULES: This would go faster if you helped. YOU: If I do, can we get an extra order of egg rolls with dinner? JULES: Sure thing, you bottomless pit. YOU: What room # are you in? JULES: Conf room 703B. YOU: omw

You plunk your phone down again and stand for a slow stretch, enjoying the crack you feel in your spine. You aren’t thrilled about the prospect of having Julie boss you about for the next little while, but if it sped up the process of leaving you’d put up with it. Besides, from all you knew, this was the easier part of her job as the assistant to the interim director of the Heroics. Honestly, she did most of the intensive work for Anita Moreno, who was serving as director temporarily since the previous one had turned out to be some tentacle-alien lady. From what Jules had told you, the board wanted a familiar figurehead in the role until things smoothed over after the alien invasion and Anita Moreno reluctantly stepped in only because her son had turned the offer down. You’d never met the woman, but you’d seen enough news footage of her over the years to know that she was an indomitable force to be reckoned with and probably didn’t need the help. But Julie didn’t mind doing the work, especially when it gave her an advantage when they finally opened up interviews for the position.

You thought about how great a promotion it would be for her as you exited her office. It was quiet as you stepped out into the hallway, the sound of your well-worn sneakers squeaking against the tile floor echoing in the emptiness. The building is seemingly vacant by now as you pad past darkened offices, looking for the little signs that direct towards certain rooms. You’re still a little uncomfortable up here, despite the frequency in which you came to visit Julie after-hours. You lived most of your day in the sub-sub basement of the building, tinkering with robotics and machinery. The upper floors always felt forbidden. This was a place for people of importance and power, like Julie or the Heroics, not the rabble like you.

It was feelings like this that almost made you miss the technology firm you’d worked at for some years after college. Strategic Development Industries, or SDI, was a modest operation with less than fifty employees. In the cramped quarters of the place, you’d found camaraderie in engineers and executives alike. It was nice to feel like you were on equal footing with your bosses, but it had also had a hand in you learning that not all was as it appeared to be there. SDI was nothing but a front company that designed and sold robots, automatons and other devices to criminals, run by a supervillain, Arthur Ahbigor, who went by the moniker the Blood King.

Learning that your work was being misused had been like a shock of ice to your veins followed by an acute fury that made you want to watch the place burn. Oh, and burn it had, thanks to you. Julie had connected you to the Heroics intel team, who in turn sent in a team of Heroics to shut the whole operation down and put the Blood King behind bars. You relished in watching the scene unfold on television from the safety of your brother and Julie’s living room. As a part of being the whistleblower, the intel team had helped you fabricate a cover for quitting your job without casting suspicion on you. You could have gone anywhere, but your brother had insisted that you come live with them and wouldn’t hear any arguments against it.

Your part in the scheme wasn’t without fault, though. Having SDI as a part of your work history had stained your resume and the few promising interviews you’d had lined up were canceled without warning and any interest employers had in you evaporated like water on a hot day. Thankfully, your sweet, wonderful Julie had managed to work her magic and wield her clout with the Heroics to get you hired into their research and development department. They owed you that, she had told you, for giving them the information they needed to put many dangerous criminals in jail.

You came to a quick stop near an intersection of hallways, realizing your mind had wandered and you had stopped paying attention to where you were going. You did a quick spin trying to reorient yourself, but you were at a loss for what way to go. You were woefully lacking in a good sense of direction even on the best of days, so you weren’t completely surprised this had happened. A small part of you was glad there weren’t any people around to gawk at you, but that also meant there was no one around to ask directions either.

You decide to walk a few more paces down the hallway, hoping to run across a directory or anything familiar enough for you to get your bearings. It’s quickly clear after about a minute or two that you won’t be so lucky and will have to own up to this embarrassment to Julie. She’s going to laugh at you when she comes to save you, but at least you won’t be stuck standing in this desolate corridor like an idiot.

You paw into your pockets for your phone only for your fingers to turn out pocket lint and bits of electrical wire in the search.

"Shit," you curse to yourself, remembering you'd set it down after texting Julie and never retrieved it from her desk when you'd left her office.

Well then, it seems you had two options at this point; stand around and wait for her to come find you or keep walking until you found either the conference room or her office. You mulled over it for a quick moment and decided that it would probably be better to keep looking. If luck was on your side, for once, you’d get where you needed to be without further issues. You had a master’s degree after all and this floor was only so big, so how hard could it really be?

Eventually, after another five or ten minutes of walking, you turn a corner, and spot light filtering out of an open door ahead of you. You don’t think it’s Julie’s office, so it must be the conference room she’s setting up.

“Jules, you would not believe...” You start as you swing casually through the doorway only to sputter to a stop when you realized this was not the room you thought it was. First of all, it was another office and not a conference room. You thought that Julie’s setup was nice, but this was exceptional. A thick black carpet spread across the floor. One wall was practically all windows while the others were painted a matte gray, with abstract paintings on white backgrounds hung on them. There’s a plush gray couch and coffee table tucked opposite of a heavy wooden desk, where a good-looking man in dark-rimmed glasses is looking up at you from where he’s seated.

“S-sorry,” you fumble on the word. You were under the impression that you and Julie were the only ones still there that night, aside from the security team. You weren’t expecting to be locking gazes with a handsome executive in a loosely buttoned dress shirt. You probably seem like a slob in comparison, standing there in faded jeans and an old band tee that you’d stolen from your brother years ago. The dress code in your department was a casual-whatever, just don’t show up in your underwear sort of thing. You clear your throat and slowly back out the door, “I-uh, I’m gonna...go.”

Marcus watches you, amusement flickering in his eyes as you zip out the door again. He’s seen you before, glued to the hip of his mother’s assistant. He knows Julie well. Sees her every day when he stops by to say good morning to his mom. She’s one of the few people he has regular interactions with outside of the other Heroics. So, she’s easy for him to pick out of the crowd of other employees. He’s seen the two of you, thick as thieves, having animated conversations on the shuttle or grabbing lunch in the cafeteria. You seemed like you were really good friends, though you must not have worked here long since he doesn’t recall seeing you with her when Julie still worked for Granada.

He checks his watch and decides that your interruption was the sign he needed to pack up and go home. He tucks the file he was reading into the drawer of his desk, grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair, and flicks the lights off with the switch by the door. He clocks movement to the right, watching as you double-back past his office, head down as you try to not appear as lost as you are.

You’re already flustered that you randomly stumbled into a stranger’s office, the last thing you want is to have to ask him for help. You might just die of mortification. He already seems to be well aware of your dilemma when he catches you by the arm at the next intersection, an easy smile on his face that leaves a dimple in one cheek, “You look a little turned around. Can I help?”

Your heart does a little spasm because he’s even better looking up close, with warm brown eyes and curls in the ends of his coffee-colored hair. He also seems familiar and you’re trying to peg from where. You’d know if someone like him ever came down to R&D, but maybe you’d seen him at your orientation? Also, why did you think you’d heard the soft tenor of his voice before? As you are pondering this conundrum, he’s waiting expectantly for a response.

“I’m a little lost,” you admit with a sigh, “I’m supposed to meet my sister-in-law, Julie, in conference room 703B.”

“That’s not too far,” he tells you, “I can take you over there.”

“Directions are fine, really.” you shake your head, “I’d hate for you to go out of your way because of me.”

He lets out a small chuckle, “It’s no trouble.”

You hesitate to accept, but give in when he smiles again, “Sure, okay.”

You walk quietly beside him, not sure what to say. Silence carries between you as he leads you to the conference room, but the door is locked and the lights are out when you get there. You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to stamp down your embarrassment, “She must have already finished. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shrugs, adjusting the way his glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, “Any place else she might be?”

“Her office probably, but you really don’t have to...” It’s too late to argue since he’s motioning you forward once more.

“So, what do you do around here?” he inquires after a beat, breaking the silence you’d half-hoped would continue, just so you didn’t accidentally blurt out something ridiculous, as you were wont to do in social situations with attractive men.

“I’m in research and development,” you explain, “ I make robots...and other...stuff.”

Great. That’s just great. Leave it to your brain to reduce all of your skills and experience to stuff. If he didn’t think you were a moron for getting lost, you’re certain he’s thinking it now.

Marcus is blind to your frustration though, responding with a polite affability as he moves on to another question, “Have you been working here long? I-uh, I’ve seen you with Julie a few times lately.”

“Oh,” you are surprised by that, feeling your cheeks starting to grow warm. You clear your throat and turn your head to try and hide it, “Not long. Less than a year. I was hired after that whole thing went on with the aliens.”

“We definitely weren’t prepared for that,” he acknowledges with a soft laugh, “Crazy how it turned out in the end.”

“I’ll say,” you agree, “I was sure I was going to live to see the end of the world. Those kids though, that’s impressive. My niece, Sunny, goes to school with Missy Moreno and it’s all she talked about for weeks after.”

Marcus can’t help the look of confusion that flashes across his face. It dawns on him with that statement that maybe you don’t actually know who he is. He was aware that there was a rule of thumb among the employees here that they were expected to treat the Heroics like any other person, both inside and out of work. He thought that this was what you were doing all along and he didn’t fathom that he might not be immediately recognizable to someone who worked there. His eyes wander over you again. He’d be lying if he said you weren’t pretty and the fact that you just made him feel so normal sparks something beneath his skin.

You glance back to him and he quickly recovers an indifferent expression as he pulls to a stop in front of the door to Julie’s office, “We’re here.”

He raps on the door frame, where Julie sits at her desk, handset to her ear, “Nevermind, I found her. Thanks for your help.”

“Hey Jules,” you give her a small waggle of your fingers.

“I knew as soon as you didn’t ask for directions to the conference room, you’d get lost.” she admonishes, picking your phone up off of her desk and handing it to you, “I nearly had to have the security team put out an APB on your butt.”

You can see that she both called and texted you a few times as you’re tucking the phone into your back pocket.

“Marcus,” Julie begins, turning to the man beside you, “I see I have you to thank for getting her back here. Late night?”

“Missy’s staying with my Mom tonight and I hate going home to an empty house,” he admits openly, flicking his eyes in your direction.

You’re convinced your temporal lobe grinds to a halt and does a hard reboot as it slowly clicks that this handsome dork in the glasses standing beside you is the Marcus Moreno. The katana-wielding leader of the Heroics. Internally, you’re screaming because how dare your brain have the audacity to not recognize one of the most well-known supers out there until right now. You want to blame it on the fact that he’s dressed so ordinarily, not decked out in all black with a tactical vest strapped across his chest and katanas in hand. But really, you must just be dense, because you’ve spent years with his face splashed across your television screen.

Marcus, for his part, enjoys watching the realization of who he is bloom on your features. He almost feels guilty about it as your cheeks burn crimson and you shuffle your feet to put a little more distance between the two of you. He could already tell he wanted to get to know you. You cross your arms over your chest and he can’t help but notice that your fingers are bare, no wedding ring, which only spurred the feeling on further.

Julie’s eyes zip from Marcus, who is watching you with piqued interest, to you, as you turn away from him to hide the flush on your cheeks. She reaches out and tugs you closer to her, before offering Marcus one of her professional smiles, “Thanks again for bringing her back.”

He puts on a disarming grin, directed at you, “Glad to help. Have a good night ladies.”

Julie doesn’t breathe another word until you’re buckling into the passenger seat of her car. Then she’s pouncing on you for details, “Spill, girlfriend. I have to know how you managed to run into Marcus.”

You speed through the details of it, omitting the fact that you found him so good-looking because that will only spur her on. There’s a knowing glint in her expression though as she turns out of the parking lot. The two of you had been friends for years, long before she got together with your brother. Ever since you moved home, she felt you’d become far too lackadaisical with your social life. Sure you spent time with friends you’d made at work, but you never dated. Most weekends you binge-watched Netflix shows on her couch. You certainly hadn’t shown a shred of interest in any men.

You can feel her watching you from the driver’s seat, as she pops an eyebrow at you, “I know you think he’s cute. It’s written all over your face.”

“I hate when you do this,” you groan, burying your face in your hands.

“Only because I’m right,” she states matter-of-factly, “Come on. He’s single. He’s handsome. He just executed a dreamy mini-rescue for you tonight. Not to mention the fact that Marcus is an actual hero, for fucks sake. You can’t tell me you didn’t like that.”

“Okay, I liked it,” you admit under the scrutiny of her stare, throwing up your hands in defeat, “He’s fucking gorgeous. Happy?”

“So, what’s the problem then?” Julie pouts. She’s hardcore invested in your answer since she’s damned determined to see you happy and not unwilling to pull some strings to play cupid. You could have shown interest in any man and it would have pleased her. She’s certainly tried to push you together with a few: the next-door neighbor, one of Sunny’s teachers, even your co-worker Frank. You hadn’t taken the bait until now and she’s somewhat tickled that it’s a good man like Marcus Moreno that’s finally chipped at the wall you’ve put up around yourself.

“When would I even see him again?” you mention, deflecting. You are so much more cautious with your relationships now, friendly or otherwise, since your time at SDI. You were only just getting comfortable in your newly formed friendships with your coworkers, so to throw in the complication of dating seemed a bit much for you. It didn’t help that you were still looking over your shoulder, wondering when someone was going to put two and two together and come after you for your hand in SDI’s downfall.

“You work in the same building,” Julie reminds you, unaware of the thoughts filling your head, “It’s not like it would be so unusual.”

You scoff at how ridiculous the idea is, “Yes, because I’ve seen so much of him and the other Heroics in the last ten months.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Julie adds but doesn’t nag you any further. She’s finally gotten you to admit to finding someone attractive, so she’s going to take the win a little gracefully while working her mind around how to help it pan out the way she’d like.

Friday morning hits you like a freight train. Between your schedule and Julie’s, there’s been little downtime in the last couple of days. Compound that with the staccato of dreams and wakefulness that fill your nights in general, you were left feeling more zombie than human. You hate that run-down feeling, but you’re determined to drown it away with caffeine until you feel some semblance of normalcy.

“Tell me again why we had to leave the house so early?” Julie questions with a yawn as the two of you slog across the parking lot to a coffee shop not far from work, “We could have had coffee at home.”

The door chimes as the two of you enter into the mid-size shop in the heart of downtown. The interior was part exposed brick, part corrugated steel and pipes, tied together in a modern industrial theme with thick wooden-slab tables and an old school chalkboard menu. The air is heavy with the smell of roasting coffee beans and cinnamon that starts to feed life back into you.

“One, the coffee here is much better than what’s at home,” you say as you tug Julie towards the register, queuing in a short line, “Two, I’m meeting Frank and one of the interns. She’s got a demonstration later today and I promised to come help with the presentation. Now let me buy your coffee, woman.”

You give your order to the barista when your turn comes up, burrowing yourself into your slouchy cardigan as you move to the pickup area. You lean against the counter and scan the room to see if Frank and Sarah had beat you there, trying to pick them out of the crowd. It’s not surprising to see so many other Heroics employees here, catching sight of the ID badges hanging from lanyards and belt loops. The coffee on-site was subpar and the proximity of this shop to the building was convenient. There were many mornings your team would call in a large order and send a couple of people over to fetch the drinks on your first fifteen-minute break.

You spot Frank waving to you from a nearby booth, a tall mess of gangly limbs as he stands to get your attention. Sarah pulls him back down into his seat as you acknowledge the two of them, before taking in the rest of the room. You think that you spot one of the married pair of supers tucked into a corner booth. Maybe. In the last couple of days you’ve been looking at people with a bit more scrutiny, mostly to avoid looking like an idiot again. You’d think after a lifetime spent watching the Heroics strut around in colorful costumes of fitted spandex and capes, it wouldn’t be so difficult to spot them, but you had to admit it was a lot harder than you expected when they were intentionally blending in with everyone else. It made you wonder how often you might have passed a super on the street or in the halls at work without even knowing it.

The barista passes you your drink, and you exchange a brief goodbye with Julie before you cross the room to join Frank and Sarah. You shuck the backpack from your shoulder and drop it on the seat before you sit down.

Sarah digs out her notecards, excited to begin as she slicks her long dark hair into a high ponytail to keep it out of her face. Frank sits beside her, leg bouncing beneath the table as he nervously runs his fingers through his shaggy blond and aqua hair. He keeps stealing glances at Sarah, who finally gives him a beaming smile and starts to go over her presentation with the two of you.

You like Frank. You are close in age, share a similar educational background, and have compatible personalities that makes working together easy. It was part of the reason why Julie had tried to get you to go on a date with him, but you were far better friends than anything else.

Besides, poor Frank was nursing the worst crush on Sarah, which was part of the reason you were there with the two of them. He’s the senior lab rat down in R&D and something of the de facto leader of the team. Tech-No is considered your direct supervisor, but it’s usually Frank that everyone turns to since the Heroic spends more time in the field than the lab.

He gulps at his frozen latte as Sarah speaks, giving himself a case of brain freeze and you suppress a laugh as he shudders at the sensation. He was trying so hard to maintain his professionalism around her, so much so that he roped you into being his third party whenever they had to meet up outside of work hours. Such was the case today, though you almost wished he’d just take the initiative and ask her out, to save you from early morning meetings like this. From where you sat, she seemed almost as interested in him as he was in her. She barely looks at you as she goes through her spiel, eyes locked on Frank as she speaks, keeping his rapt attention on her.

It’s only once she’s done that she looks to you for advice, after letting Frank offer his first. Demonstrations like hers are something of a big deal for the interns. How well they do factors into whether the Heroics offer them a permanent job after the end of their internship. Sarah is incredibly bright. You are genuinely excited to see her project and you’d love for her to become a permanent fixture in the lab because of the creativity and ingenuity she brings to the table.

That’s one of the truly great things about your job. You all covered so many different facets across the industry. Frank favored nanites and micro-tech, Sarah’s focus was pulse technology, and you were all about machinery and robotics. Then there were the scientists and chemists and other engineers. R&D takes in some seriously imaginative people and you get to be around to witness their innovations. That and you’ve noticed that everyone is extremely supportive of each other. The plucky interns and fresh-out-of-grad school pioneers are a little trying with their do-good optimism, but that kind of came with the territory of working for the Heroics. You even had to admit to yourself that you liked the idea of helping further good in the world through your work, especially knowing how it was used for evil in the past.

The three of you keep perfecting the presentation until the alarm on your smartwatch goes off to let you know that you should pack it up and head into work. You snag a coffee refill while the three of you slip out the door with the rest of the crowd heading towards the shuttles at the far end of the parking lot.

The shuttles are crowded when you get there. You scan your ID badges at the terminal and squeeze aboard one together. Sarah is able to grab one of the last empty seats and Frank clutches to one of the hand loops overhead. You’re mere inches too short to get a good grip on them. You’d rather not stand on your tiptoes the whole ride, so you have to resort to squashing into the mass of bodies to get a hold of one of the vertical support bars further inside. Frank shoots you an almost apologetic frown, but you know he’s secretly glad to have a few minutes by himself with Sarah.

You absently reach for the bar as you make a teasing face back at him and gasp when instead of grabbing smooth metal you’re palming the back of someone’s hand instead. You snatch it back quickly, dropping a quick, “I’m sorry,” as you lock gazes with an all-too-familiar pair of brown eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. Marcus Moreno is gazing down at you, a smirk twitching up in the corner of his mouth.

“We meet again,” he’s chipper, eyes sparkling with enjoyment at seeing you. Meanwhile, you are musing over whether to read this encounter with him as mere coincidence or karma being a scheming bitch for your comment to Julie a few nights ago.

You flash him a sociable smile and offer up a simple, “Hello again.”

The doors slide closed and the shuttle lurches forward. You nearly lose your footing as you reach out for the bar again. Marcus steadies you with a hand on your hip until you can wedge in beside him. The touch sends sparks of electricity through your limbs as your free hand grips the bar just below his. Because of the crowd, you’re forced to stand close enough to catch a whiff of his cologne and the warm scent of his leather jacket. You take in another breath of him before you shift the backpack on your shoulder to act as a buffer. The last thing you need is to stand here sniffing him the entire ride like you’re some kind of hound dog.

Marcus alters his stance with each shift of the crowd, cushioning you from their protruding elbows and handbags. These minor adjustments see him pressed chest-to-back behind you instead of to your right where he started. You feel your breath hitch in your throat at his proximity and you’re grateful Julie isn’t here to make smart-ass comments in your ear. You can’t tell if this is a friendly move or something more, but you’ve decided that despite your reservations, you won’t outright shut it down. You’d deny it out loud, but it makes your heart thrum.

He lets out a quiet huff and you can feel it gust across the hairs at the nape of your neck, making your skin prickle with goosebumps. You lean into the bar in front of you and turn so that the two of you are facing each other. It doesn’t hurt that it means there’s now space between your bodies.

He takes this as an invitation for further conversation, tilting his face down towards yours, “Are you having a good morning?”

“Coffee, good company,” you grin, pulling the coffee cup in your hand up towards your chest, “I can think of worse ways to start the day.”

“I hear that,” he tells you with a bright laugh, “Coffee is a morning essential at my house.”

God, even his laugh is attractive. Any more of this and you just know you’re going to end up like Frank, nursing a silly crush, because the notion that you’d ever nab a man like Marcus is laughable. You imagine he’s got swarms of women clamoring for his attention that you wonder at that he’s even bothered to spare a moment to talk with you, not once but twice now.

You take a nervous sip of your drink and avert your gaze from his, trying to keep up with the small talk, “What’s it like being back in the thick of things again?”

“Different,” he immediately replies, scratching at his beard, “Since the Ogima were here, there’s been a lot less conflict.”

“That’s good, right?” his focus is still on you when your eyes dart back his direction and you swear he’s closed the gap between you when you weren’t looking. He takes a breath to speak as the shuttle coasts to a stop at the unloading dock inside Heroics Headquarters. The clamor of employees disembarking quiets him before he can give his reply and he backs away to give you room to exit with the others. You think that this will be the end of your polite back-and-forth, but Marcus just falls in step beside you as you wave to Frank and Sarah as they wait at the curb for you.

“Less conflict is good,” Marcus continues the conversation you were having, “It means more time with my daughter and more time to live my life.”

There’s something about his candid statement that’s endearing as it squeezes at your emotions. Frank leans into Sarah as you approach, whispering something in her ear that makes her let out a tiny squeak, while Frank just goggles at Marcus. He’s clearly quicker on the uptake than you at recognizing the Heroics. Then again, Frank has worked here for a long time and is something of an aficionado when it comes to the supers. It wouldn’t surprise you if he had a display of Heroics Funko Pops somewhere at his apartment.

“G–good morning, Mr. Moreno,” Frank sputters out, cutting Marcus off as he goes to say something else to you. You almost miss the shift in Marcus’s demeanor as he offers Frank a polite handshake and exchanges pleasantries with him and Sarah. The easy conversation between the two of you morphs into polite professionalism when he speaks to them. Your quartet enters the building together, as Marcus tries again to fall back from Frank and Sarah and back in step with you. Frank keeps countering his moves, sweeping him up in a conversation swirling with nanites and gushing over the Heroics.

You can tell that Marcus is just being nice, letting Frank gab in his ear as you gather with the rest of the crowd near the elevators. You try to interject, to halt the derailing train of his rambling. Frank is just so star-struck he can’t read the room to see how awkward he’s being. You and Sarah exchange cringed looks as it plays out. Marcus, to his credit, rolls along with it. He even offers the occasional comment back that makes Frank preen at the attention.

As soon as an elevator heading in the right direction opens, you’re steering Frank towards it.

“This is us, Frank,” Sarah tells him, grabbing his other arm to help. He objects at the disruption, arguing that this particular car is already too full and you should wait for another. You’re having none of that though.

“We go down, he goes up. Let the man go do his job and we’ll go do ours,” you scold, perhaps a little harshly, but it gets the point across. The three of you are squeezed in like sardines, but at least you got him away from Marcus. You turn back to him mouthing, “Sorry,” and elbowing Frank in the ribs when he starts to complain again.

“It's okay,” Marcus offers a little mutedly as the doors close between you and the elevator drops down several floors. You feel like turning to throttle Frank. He should know better than to act like a crazed fan around the supers. It’s practically browbeaten into new employees at orientation, but this is lost on Frank. He’s buzzing behind you, sheer joy splashed across his face. Gratefully, he remains silent until the elevator comes to a stop and everyone floods into the hallway outside of research and development.

You pull him aside to try to work some sense into him, but as soon as you’re clear of prying eyes and ears he’s swooped in on you. Hands gripping your shoulders excitedly he titters as he speaks, “That was–that was the best day I’ve ever had working here. And it's not even eight a.m. yet! I can’t believe I not only saw Marcus Moreno up close. I SPOKE - to him! An actual conversation!”

Sarah starts shushing him at the same time as you, his voice rising in octave as he talks. You don’t want to put a damper on his spirit, but he’s really taking it too far. You give him a pointed glare, “I need you to settle down before you start frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.”

He looks between you and Sarah, who also sets a similarly steely gaze on him until he composes himself. He takes a deep breath and reflects back on his behavior. His ears pink up a little in embarrassment as he replays it in his head. “Right, right. I’ve gotta keep the fan-gasms in check.”

A beat goes by before he turns on you, poking you playfully in the shoulder, “What were you doing talking to him? Not cool being secret friends with a super.”

“We’re not friends,” you explain, “Julie is his mom’s assistant, that’s all. I met him, once, like two nights ago. I would hardly consider that being friends.”

“He was being awfully nice to you when you got off the shuttle together,” Sarah narrows her eyes suspiciously. She’s the quiet type, but incredibly observant about a lot of things. She watches your face for any tells in your expression.

You scoff. You aren’t about to be led down this road. Julie is bad enough, you didn’t need it from her. She sidles up beside you as you walk away, Frank trailing behind her. They want some kind of answer. You sigh and try to deflect, “He was nice to you and Frank too. We work for him. I think it would be a little unprofessional if he was a dick to us.”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, the cogs of her mind turning as she tries to suss you out. You tutt at her and shoo them both away before any more is said. Once they get absorbed into their jobs, you hope that they’ll just drop the whole thing and never bring it up again.

You are intensely focused, carefully pinning your concentration on the task in front of you. For the last hour or so, you’ve been rebuilding a transport drone, fine-tuning the adjustments by hand. The tablet resting beside you lights up with a new notification, flashing the time of 2:24 p.m. across the display before going dark again. The end of the day has been creeping up on you quicker than you had expected and it’s almost time for Sarah’s presentation.

The first half had flashed by as you’d typed up a proposal for the development of quick drop barricades delivered by unmanned aerial vehicles. Drafting, compiling data, organizing everything. It’s a pet project. You want to protect civilians caught up in the chaos of the battles the Heroics continually found themselves in.

Lunch with Julie followed with the usual crass gossip and job complaints as you ate. Her muttering about rude board members between bites of pasta and you griping about paperwork while devouring a microwave chicken and rice bowl. Of course, she could read you like a well-loved book. Always has; shuffling your pages to see the secrets written between the lines. She extracted details of your run-in with Marcus with the precision of a surgeon. Her crows of delight had you shifting through shades of crimson, waggling her fork around as she prodded you to ask him out for coffee.

You had batted away the suggestion nearly as soon as it had left her lips. They curled up, Cheshire cat-like across her face as you scowled. You ignored the puckish glint that flickered in her eyes and veered to other subjects for the duration of your lunch break. You’d parted ways with the promise of getting home on time and her mum to further mentions of Marcus.

Returning to the lab after, you continued the day in blessed silence from either Frank or Sarah. He’s been flitting here and there between groups since he walked through the door. His current conundrum to solve is some difficult programming for a cybernetics system. You can see his vague outline beyond the frosted glass partition of the PC alcove, leant over a workstation. Sarah has been equally busy, consulting with her fellow interns and making last-minute tweaks to her pulse reactor before the presentation at 3 p.m. She’s off at the far end of the lab now, on a small demonstration stage where her reactor has been moved.

You pause from fitting the delicate parts of the drone’s modified propulsor together to glimpse at her. She’s pacing circles around the device, worrying the ends of her dark hair in her fingers as she rehearses her speech. You smile, proud of her, and dive back into your task. You finish the assembly and check the time, 2:46 p.m., as you put your tools away into the chest of drawers below your worktable.

Behind you, one of your colleagues lets out a shrill squeal that has you snapping around to look at him. He bites it off quickly, but his outburst has startled more than just you.

“Holy fuck. Is that?” a young woman says, peering out from the chem lab to make sure nothing has gone amiss. Your eyes follow her line of sight. Tech-No and Marcus are standing in the hall just outside of R&D, in full uniform, casual banter passing between them.

A chain reaction begins, with curious faces investigating and passing the word. The relative silence of the lab that exists most days is replaced by a low twitterpating chatter. Team Tech-Nerd, as the R&D employees have dubbed themselves, are coming out of the woodwork to take brief inquisitive looks towards the supers. It’s rare, but not unusual, for Tech-No to come down to the lab. He visits a few times a month in between missions and training to make sure things are still running smoothly. No, it’s Marcus that has them buzzing in all corners of the room.

They won’t rush him. They know better. But it won’t stop them from boring into him at a distance. He is the leader of the Heroics, after all. An icon of do-good-isms that they admire and aspire to emulate. You aren’t as awed by this as the others. Perhaps because you’ve actually talked to him and not just gawked from afar. It’s certainly strange that he’s down here, though. None of the other Heroics, save Tech-No, ever make an appearance. Not even when they’ve got new gear. That all gets carefully packed up and carted away by their world-weary personal assistants. You aren’t even sure the other Heroics even know this place exists. You entertain the idea that his appearance has something to do with you, but you quickly brush that notion off as utterly absurd.

You watch the two of them speak, telling yourself that when their conversation concludes, Marcus will return to whatever it is the supers do when there are no missions to complete or villains to thwart. You toss your tablet into the backpack at your feet and grab your phone from the top drawer of your workstation when you feel the sensation of being watched. Marcus is strolling into the lab, in step with Tech-No, but his eyes are zeroed in on you from across the room.

He doesn’t approach you, just casually observes the room as he snags up a seat in the viewing area beside the demonstration stage. His gaze seems to keep falling back on you as you head in his direction with a swarm of your colleagues. They fill in the seats leaving a sizable gap between them and him. You debate following suit, but it bothers you to see him sitting there alone. You dial up your bravery and drop into the empty seat to his right.

“Hi,” you say brightly, tucking your hands into the pockets of your cardigan because, admittedly, being around him still makes you a touch nervous. You hope he doesn’t notice your jitters.

“Hey,” he responds quietly, a small smile pulling at his lips, “it seems we keep bumping into each other.”

“Here I thought Tech-No was the only Heroic interested in the work we do,” you comment easily, “What brings you down to our dungeon?”

“Well,” he tells you with a shrug, “I’m just stepping in for Mom. She’s apparently tied up and couldn’t make it down for this.”

He motions with one hand at Sarah and her device where she is doing the final checks before her demonstration. You have to stop yourself from laughing out loud at the ridiculous idea that someone with the prestige of Anita Moreno would ever have time for something like an intern’s demonstration. You’d been to enough of them yourself to know that for certain.

So, either he was bluffing, which opened up a whole other chasm of questions, or someone had made him believe he was needed down here. Julie. Would it surprise you if she had her hand in this? It honestly wasn’t a hard sell after the look she had given you at lunch.

You try to read him as he sits next to you, but you can’t detect any tell-tale signs of deceit in his features, just warmth, and openness as he subtly studies you. You do the same to him, taking in his muscled biceps, broad shoulders, and the way his dark slacks hugged his thighs. He looked damn good in that uniform, but you think you might like his business casual look better.

The last of the stragglers who’ve come out of their cubbies to see the demo have made it to their seats by now and Sarah begins her carefully practiced speech. You try to put your focus on her, despite having heard this at least a dozen times by now, but the man beside you is a bit of a distraction. Still, you’re happy to see how she is beaming. You catch Frank from the corner of your eye and see him mouthing words of encouragement at her from the sidelines.

There's a lengthy explanation of the pulse reactor's purpose and function, some of which you are sure is as lost on Marcus as it is on you. But the premise of clean self-sustaining energy was fascinating in concept and you were eager to see it brought to life. Sarah finishes off her speech and turns to activate the reactor. She flips a switch at the front and taps at her tablet with a little flourish before it comes to life.

“Woah,” you exclaim excitedly, as a deep vibration fluctuates across the floor, kicking up the dust as it resonates like a really good bass beat. There’s a smattering of cheers and whoops from the crowd as everyone takes it in.

Marcus peeks over at you, the smile broad across your face as you applaud your friend. He takes in the way it stretches your cheeks and your joy sparkles in your eyes. He observes you as you lean over your chair to talk to a nearby colleague, adding a comment to their thrilled conversation that you had caught at this distance. They give you an animated reply before catching sight of Marcus again, their words faltering as his gaze flicks to them briefly, but you don’t realize the cause. He notices though, how they cut away from you, back to the larger crowd when he looks towards them again, like his stare might burn them.

“Do I scare them or something?” he asks, nudging your leg with his knee to get your attention. You turn back to him at the touch, then glance back over your shoulder once. Your colleagues whisper among themselves, trying to seem inconspicuous as they watch the both of you with intrigue.

“I think awestruck is a better description,” you offer, noting that he leaves his leg pressed to yours, warmth radiating along your thighs where they meet. You try not to think about the implication of such a move as you elaborate, “We don’t really get people of importance down here, except Tech-No. You’re an enigma to them. They probably think they’ll get in trouble if they try to speak to you.”

The reactor hums at full power, fluttering steadily like a heartbeat, as Sarah moves around it, pointing out different parts and pieces to Tech-No.

Marcus watches them as he mulls over what you said, speaking again after a beat, “You’re talking to me though.”

“Well, I’ve got the advantage there,” you smirk, confidence bolstered as you gently shoulder-check him, “I’ve gotten to see you in your disarming alter-ego form, after all. I think the glasses and tie are less intimidating than this all-black ensemble.”

“Most people like the uniform,” he says a little smugly, leaning back in his seat and slinging his arms across the backs of the chairs to either side of him.

You open your mouth to toss back a cheeky quip, but the comment dies on your tongue when the reactor lets out a hard shudder, out of rhythm from the steady beat it held before. The chatter around you falls silent as everyone, including you, dart their attention back to the stage. Sarah shoots a concerned look from Tech-No to Frank before she drops down to fiddle with something behind a control panel. It resumes the familiar drum for a few more beats, before tipping back into an arrhythmia.

Marcus straightens up beside you, the playful grin turning stoic as he turns to look at you straight on, “Is it supposed to do that?”

The pulsation from the reactor changes again, like a reverberating earthquake beneath your feet.

“It’s definitely not normal,” you tell him with a shake of your head, seeking out Frank in the group behind you. It’s not often that these things go awry and you want to gauge your own concern based on his reaction to this occurrence. He’s pressing through the throng of people towards the stage when your eyes meet. His expression is a mix of fear and concern, which does nothing to put you at ease as the thundering vibration intensifies.

Something from the reactor shakes loose, a screw or a bolt, and whizzes away, pinging against one of the ducts on the ceiling. Several people cry out in surprise and start to move out of the viewing area. You gasp and sink lower in your chair, instinctively grabbing Marcus by the knee. He doesn’t say anything, just gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before he stands, stepping closer to better observe the situation.

You swallow back the worry creeping in and tightening inside your chest. You know what this project means for Sarah and you hope it doesn’t go off the rails any further. Nothing she seems to do helps, though. Tech-No kneels down beside her, watching over her shoulder for another minute before recommending that the reactor be shut down. She’s elbow deep inside the machine, insisting that she can fix it, but you’re thinking that Tech-No’s suggestion is probably the wise decision at this point. She can shut it down and resolve the issue later, then redo her presentation.

She only gives in when he insists more strongly, pulling her back from the inner workings and handing her the tablet she had sat beside her. She lets out a resigned sigh as her fingers coast across the screen.

“The shutdown code isn’t working,” she remarks with surprise, unceremoniously dropping the tablet to the floor. She kneels and reaches around the side to try the manual shutoff, with no success there either, before digging back into the wiring in front of her, “I don’t understand. I built a failsafe into this. It should have shut down when I told it to.”

She starts tearing at the wires, spilling them out in her lap in a tangled mess. She doesn’t stop until she lets out a pained yelp, ripping her hands away to reveal an electrical burn across one of her palms. Frank leaps forward to help her up as Tech-No briefs himself on her specs. He’s going to try his own methods to shut it down, but the vibrations continue to get worse and you’re wondering if they’ve reinforced the building for events like this, because the tremors are strong enough they’re painful in the way they reverberate in your bones.

Marcus has taken long enough in his assessment to judge that it’s probably best to get the civilian employees out of the way before it gets any more dicey. His features harden even more, a distinct shift from mere observer to leader.

“Tech!” Marcus shouts above the rumbling. The other man looks up sharply, his own expression serious and focused, “We should get these people out of here!”

Many people have cleared the viewing area, returning to their own stations or hovering near the door. Only you and a handful of others have remained in your seats since the reactor started acting up.

“You get them out the door while I work on this!” Tech-No replies, pointing towards the exit before diving back into the reactor. No one is going to argue with the Heroics as they start to gather up their belongings and head towards the exit. You follow suit, taking long strides towards your work table to retrieve your bag. Another quake undulates sharply and you hear the sound of the concrete floor splitting before it heaves beneath your feet.

A hand grabs you by the elbow and pulls you back from the growing fissure as a hairline fracture spreads across the ceiling overhead. Marcus has taken hold of you and another young woman, wrenching you back from the cleft and redirects you towards the door that other people are scrambling towards. What little composure they had left is gone as many people bolt out of the lab and towards the stairs.

He’s hard on your heels, activating the communicator on his left wrist, voice stern as he speaks, “Moreno to mission control!”

“This is mission control,” comes a reply within seconds, “please proceed.”

“I’m in HQ sublevel two and we have a situation here with an out-of-control device. I’m initiating a full evacuation of the building,” he explains as he leads you forward, hand at your back to keep you moving.

“Executing now, sir,” they respond as a klaxon alarm screams through the air and the emergency lights strobe red against the walls, “Evacuation underway. Do you need a team sent in?”

Before he can answer, another shockwave shakes through the room. The ceiling splits further, a chunk of concrete and rebar pulling loose. It crashes down, collapsing some equipment and burying the only exit in mangled parts and rubble.

“Negative. Our egress was just blocked by debris and I’m not going to risk personnel with an unstable situation,” he informs them, “We’ll shelter in place until the situation is resolved.”

“Copy,” says mission control, “We are going mobile. Good luck, sir. We’ll be waiting for your follow-up.”

Frank darts up beside you with Sarah clinging to his shirttails. Other people are gravitating in your direction, dumbfounded by the loss of their escape round and drawn to Marcus. Seeking him for the answer to this perilous situation.

“Now what?” you voice the question the others are thinking. Frank takes an assessment of the room, holding Sarah to his side, nervously fidgeting his fingers across her bicep as he thinks.

“Is there a bomb shelter or anything like that on this level?” Marcus questions the crowd. They don’t avoid him now that they need him, but none are forthcoming with an answer until Frank chirps up.

“We don’t,” he tells Marcus, “But the emergency procedures for this floor say to huddle by those structural supports.”

Frank points to the far end of the room as the floor continues to tremble and shake beneath your feet. There are several large square pillars through the room, at least five foot by five foot across, built to add stability to the floor above. Marcus doesn’t care much for this solution, but it’s all there is to work with at the moment.

“Move!” he barks the order, loud enough that it carries over the noise of the reactor and the crumbling room. The people hesitate a moment until he shouts again. They scatter as if suddenly shocked into motion, retreating to the far end of the lab. You stray at the back of the crowd with Marcus, calmed by his presence near you.

Tech-No looks up at Marcus from where he’s working to disable the reactor, “I’m going to keep working on this for as long as I can! I’m going to try to shut it down, but I don’t know what’s going to happen if I can’t.”

More small bits start to whiz off from the reactor as it falls dangerously to pieces, peppering the escaping crowd with shrapnel, injuring some of them.

“Fuck!” you hiss as something glances hard across your forehead as Marcus urges you onwards to the back of the room. He stops you short, pulling you defensively into his chest as the glass partition to the PC alcove ahead of you gets hit. It spiderwebs from the repeated impacts and sprays everyone nearby with glass. Despite him shielding you, you can still feel fragments cut into your scalp as they bury themselves in your hair and the fabric of your cardigan.

“Double-time it, people!” Marcus shouts to the crowd as the glass settles. You press the heel of your palm to your bleeding head wound. His hand comes around your elbow again to lead you on. The two of you and a few others are still skirting around tables and overturned equipment as another massive quake shudders around you, breaking loose a section of ceiling above you. It crumbles to the floor as the group of you reach the shelter. One of your coworkers loses her footing as she skids into you, wrenching you from Marcus’s grasp.

You shriek as she knocks you off of your feet, your tailbone slamming into the ground hard. The room shakes again as more debris falls from above. Your coworker rolls away as you skitter backward out of its path. An arm hooks around your waist and a pair of hands grab your arm as you are pulled against the pillar behind you. Sarah is on your right, her small hands a vice around your bicep. Frank sits beside her, palms on her shoulders and he speaks softly in her ear, his words getting her to ease her grip on you. Marcus is to your left, his arm snaking free from your waist as he leans over to look Sarah in the eye, “What’s going to happen with that thing?”

“I don’t know for certain,” she tells him, darting her eyes back and forth nervously, as Frank takes up her now empty hands and gives them a reassuring squeeze, “In a normal situation, it’s designed to harmlessly disperse the energy it generates into a power grid, even if it has to be shut down. With it going haywire like this, that energy still has to go somewhere and it doesn’t have an outlet right now.”

“It’s likely that it will explode when the internalized pressure gets too high,” Frank elaborates, to the horror of the people around him, not bothering to speak with any tact, “And it will probably release an electromagnetic pulse that could fry some of our electronics. Assuming we’ll be around to need them.”

Marcus takes in the faces of the people surrounding him, shocked stares and panicked sobs echoing off the walls. They’re pressed into corners and around the backside of the support pillars, but there’s nothing to truly block them from the explosion Frank has predicted. He glances at you, as you use the sleeve of your cardigan to wipe away the smear of blood that stains your cheek from where it trickled from your injury. You offer him a hesitant, half-smile that doesn’t make it to your eyes.

He knows that it’s his responsibility to keep you all safe and to protect you from the danger ahead. Tech-No is still trying to avert the looming disaster by furiously ripping apart the reactor piece-by-piece, but Marcus doubts it will be enough at this point. Like Sarah had said, the energy still had to go somewhere even if the thing was shut down at this point, and he didn’t know how destructive the blast might be.

It’s a swift, graceful movement as he comes to a stand, positioning himself between the two pillars where your small group hides. He throws out both hands wide, slowly pulling at an invisible force. A deep crease etches across his face with the effort of his concentration. It’s an astonishing display of his powers as workstations, chairs, rebar, and other bits of metal screech across the floor and contorts into a makeshift shield across the front of the two pillars. A barrier that he hopes will safeguard you from the fallout of the coming explosion.

Everyone else is mesmerized watching him work, but you can’t help but focus on the source of peril across the room. You peer past the twisted bits of metal as he continues to build it up higher, watching as the casing of the reactor swells out like a balloon. The welded joints pop apart as Tech-No finally gives up the ghost and sprints away to the other group of your colleagues cowering on the other side of the chasm in the floor. Those around you notice him flee, bracing themselves for the expected blast. Only Marcus seems oblivious to this, too focused on his task to see this detail.

“Marcus, get down!” you shout, casting aside your own self-preservation instincts to clamber to your feet and grab him by the forearms, tugging him back towards the pillar. He snaps back to reality at your touch as a blinding flash fills the room. The two of you crash to your knees as the resulting explosion rocks through the lab. You’re vaguely aware of him throwing himself over you as you pinch your eyes shut and pray that this isn’t how you all die.

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Chapter Two

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A/N: A couple of things I want to mention here at the end of things:

If you want to be tagged in future chapters, please drop me an ask. I am serious when I say I have no experience with interacting with readers on Tumblr or honestly how half the stuff on here works because I’ve only ever reblogged some things and thirsted for Pedro content.

Then it gets worse. People get sick. White-out migraines. Seizures. Vomiting an odd black mucus before the subject in question passes out. A rumor spreads that some of them have died as a result. Janet from HR gives a variety of feeble excuses when you clamor for answers. Undiagnosed disorders. Food poisoning. Overwork. It’s too many issues in such a small sample size for it to be a mere coincidence. You are all people of science and this information just does not compute.

The vocal few of you that are, as of yet, unaffected, crowd into the executive’s office suites, decrying the answers given. Surely there must be something causing this. Contaminants in the water from old pipes or a pathogen accidentally unleashed by the biomedical team. They counter your concerns with what feels like carefully scripted responses, even under veiled threats to report what you’ve seen to OSHA. All you get in the end are placating smiles and dismissive waves as you are ushered back to your work areas.

Unsatisfied with that response, many colleagues much smarter than you decide to cut and run. Staunchly refusing to risk the chances of being infected themselves. You briefly consider getting out too, but curiosity keeps you there. Watching as a slew of newly minted employees join your ranks to fill those spaces vacated by the departures. Seeing how, at random, they seem to be swallowed by this mysterious phenomenon too.

As the weeks progress, the illnesses subside, but the shifted behavior remains. It’s not as disjointed as it was before, but many of your colleagues are just not themselves. More like body-snatched versions of who they once were. Completely the same on the outside, but the inner workings slightly off in a way that makes your skin crawl when you interact with them. You have the inkling that this is something big and despite the insistence of your loved ones to leave like the others, you stay and pursue it secretively.

The first clue you get, beyond the shifted personalities, is when the young man at the table next to you falls asleep in his chicken parmesan, only to jolt back awake ten minutes later, resuming his meal as though nothing was amiss. It’s not the slow nodding off you might expect, but a sudden shutting down, like hard rebooting a computer. While he was out, you were able to spot a nearly healed incision at the base of his skull, nearly hidden in his hairline.

Working a theory, you discover similar wounds on other employees, in various states of healing. You hastily jot down your findings while huddled in a bathroom stall, hidden away from prying eyes. The Information entreating you to piece it all together.

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CASE STUDY #1 PAM TAYLOR [RECEPTIONIST] Origin Personality: cheerful/expressive/scatterbrained Pheno-Personality: methodical/repetitive/straight-faced

Notes: Pam states the same greeting to each and every person that enters the building. It is always the exact same phrase. The tempo and intonation unchanged, with no variation or natural tics as one might expect in regularly repeated speech. It’s as if her brain is playing a recording with her voice box acting in lieu of a speaker. Her organizational skills have gone from near non-existent to meticulously disciplined over the course of a weekend.

CASE STUDY #2 ROGER MOORE [ORGANIC CHEMIST] Origin Personality: hot-headed/loud/belligerent Pheno-Personality: gentle/instructive/amiable

JENNY DAVIS [BIOCHEMIST] Origin Personality: messy/emotional/stutters Pheno-Personality: precise/detached/succinct

Notes: Over the past two years, Roger and Jenny have been a prime example of antithetical personalities. Repeated combative arguments required they be assigned to opposite ends of the chemistry lab with a designated no man’s land between them to avoid conflict. Separately, their personality changes were not immediately identifiable as they both work independently and rarely socialize with others. As of a month ago, they began working side-by-side without issue.

CASE STUDY #3 JOE HITCHCOCK [IT SPECIALIST] Origin Personality: lackadaisical/social/unscrupulous Pheno-Personality: clinical/professional/ethical

Notes: Historically, Joe has prioritized his to-do list based not on the severity of the issue or the date submitted, but by who was willing to buy him the best lunch in order to resolve their problem. He was also known to regularly disable the cameras in his immediate vicinity to nap at his desk. Post-phenomenon, he routinely clears out several days of backlogged IT tickets by himself. There has been more than one instance of him staying well past his shift to complete a complicated project, without prompting or coercion by any of his teammates.

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There are a dozen or more examples scrawled in your neat hand across the pages. Both new marks or faded scars are borne upon the skin of each subject you document.

It’s a mystery you chew over in all of your spare hours. Parsing through the gathered evidence at home, your eyes straining under the dim light of your desk lamp as you struggle to connect the data points. It is not your job to unravel the enigma of this phenomenon. But you can’t help the way your conscience prods at you, asking: if not you, then who?

Your brother, from whom you keep no secrets, doesn’t understand your obsession with the truth.

You both belong to a generation that cut their teeth on Heroics filling up every bit of consumable media available. Saturday morning cartoons, colorful comic books, and intense news coverage. Store shelves jam-packed with their plastic action figures, chintzy costumes, and sugary breakfast cereals. Their faces plastered on billboards, magazines, and bedroom walls alongside the cutout faces of teenage heartthrobs.

Of course, the acting players have changed from those that dominated your childhood. A different breed of heroes has taken up the mantle of their predecessors, as accustomed to the adoration and limelight as you are to the regularity of their images flickering across your screen. A twisted belief runs deep through the populace that they are obligated to risk life and limb to solve the world’s woes, rather than it being a choice they are allowed to make.

Danny falls into that category of believer. So caught up in the fanfare built by the media that he insists you should wait at the sidelines and leave it to the Heroics to stop whatever is going on at SDI.

You don’t subscribe to this philosophy like he does. Though they may have exceptional powers, that does not mean they are responsible to right every wrong or solve every crime that occurs. They are not omnipotent or uncompromisingly virtuous. They are still human, after all, beneath the patina of their gifts. Still able to experience the full breadth of human joy and tragedy. Falling on a spectrum of morality just like anyone else.

And why shouldn’t a garden-variety individual like yourself have a duty to do good too? You certainly believe you possess an innate propensity for it, even if you lack the extraordinary abilities that elevate the heroes to a superior status. And while you are starting to suspect whatever is happening here goes beyond the realm of common workplace malfeasances, can’t you bear the burden of bringing the supers insider details that might mitigate the risks they have to take to stop this?

Julie thinks more like you than Danny does. Working with the Heroics has taught her what their limitations are. She sees them for more than their celebrity. She is also keenly aware of the line between run-of-the-mill criminality and perverse villainy. She agrees that what you’ve witnessed in the past months seems to be more than bizarre coincidences or a simple coverup of company errors. She’s had private conversations with the Heroics intel team, who also feel that something is amiss, but need more than just your personal observations to move forward. While you have a vague idea of the root cause, you have to give them more than your half-cocked hunches.

It’s a temerarious scheme that you hatch in pursuit of actual answers. A quest far more daring than the silent surveillance you’ve done from unwatched nooks and crannies. No, you’ve decided to thrust yourself into the proverbial lion’s den.

SDI has always boasted a unique working environment, with an uncommonly close fellowship between the regular employees and the echelon of executives that oversee the inner workings of the business. You can easily call many of them friends and it would be one of those relationships that you would use to your own advantage in this course of action.

Eddie, brilliant and favored by the CEO, is the easiest target. He’s congenial to everyone but has a clear-cut soft spot for you, formed in the early iterations of the company. Back when he was a fresh-on-the-scene engineering graduate like you, and you pursued technological advances together. He was always wildly ambitious with each project he got his hands on, which made it no surprise when Arthur Ahbigor plucked him from your ranks and lined him up for some envisioned greatness as the man’s protege.

You’ve never let his fondness escape the realms of friendship, but you willingly twist that affection in your favor, as you share your lunch hour together in his office. All it takes is some mild flirtation and a well-timed distraction to get him out of his space long enough to plant a keylogger. His carelessly unlocked system (opened at your insistence that he show off some of his recent successes as you ate) also allows you to submit a request for an all-access keycard for yourself under the guise of his name. All in the ten or less minutes he is out of sight and none-the-wiser to your subterfuge.

Its underhandedness leaves you with a negligible sense of guilt overshadowed by the knowledge that he endorses whatever wrongdoings are occurring here. Though he, like Janet and the others, denies any such thing.

Still, you find yourself swallowing back the trepidation and bile that rises in your throat as you slip into a propped open side door after-hours, avoiding the broadly placed cameras that are the only potential witness to your invasion. The hallways you usually traverse with ease are menacing as you slide into Eddie’s darkened office, the beeping sound of the keycard granting you access startlingly loud despite the fact that there’s no one around to hear it but you. You take a measured breath and repeat a familiar mantra, I am a fierce capable genius, as you sneak inside.

In the few days the keylogger has been installed, it’s sent you a wealth of information remotely. Key codes for the file rooms, glimpses of sensitive conversations involving work Eddie would never share with you, and most importantly the passwords for accessing all of the digital systems out of your reach.

You sit carefully in the leatherback office chair. The glow of his monitor is blinding as you bring the computer to life, the keys beneath your fingers clack softly as you break in, and you hold your breath as his desktop loads. What you had from the keylogger was a start, but not nearly enough to prove any of your theories.

You begin with the most obvious, searching for some indication that there’s been an EPA violation or a runaway virus that’s been hastily covered up, to no avail. You jump next to skimming through incident reports for the last several months, seeing if there are any giveaways in them that suggest foul play. You find nothing revealing in them, save for the confirmation of the rumored deaths that you trail to a number of insurance payouts and some notably strict legal documents for the deceased's families with the pertinent parts redacted in the digital files. Still, it’s mostly a dead-end that gets you only a little more information than you had before.

You chew nervously at your thumbnail as you print out what you find and move on. You do a system-wide search that cross-references one of the names in your private case studies, tucking away the printed pages into a manilla envelope inside your backpack as it runs through various locations. What you find from there is absolutely eye-opening.

You find a series of secret board meetings that predate the beginning of the aberrant behavior, based on your notes. They all circle around something called Project Imperium, though there are no details outlined in the digital meeting notes. However, they do indicate that after careful consideration by the board, the Project Imperium team (all higher-level executives by your count) has been authorized to begin its launch. Starting with breaking you and your colleagues into separate testing and control groups.

You still don’t have the finer details, but your stomach lurches as the implication laid before you. That you’ve all been set up as involuntary guinea pigs in some sick experiment that betrays the ethos of every good scientist.

You set the system to run a search on all the files for Project Imperium before you slip from the office. There’s a file room not far down the hall that you tiptoe your way into. There’s sure to be plenty of digital information for you to parse through, but in the meantime, you need to get your hands on anything confidential enough to be stored as hard copies. You punch in the key code that unlocks the cabinet and shuffle through to the appropriate section.

Project Imperium does not have many hard copy files, but the ones you do find are curious and concerning. Different iterations of blueprints for some kind of cerebral implant, research documents on theoretical mind control, bribes to OSHA employees, and numerous pre-negotiated contracts with what you’re sure are illegitimate companies for whatever is the endgame of this project. You photocopy it all, replacing it where you found it and retreating back to Eddie’s office.

The search has finished by the time you return. Among the multitude of files, beyond the expected emails and chat exchanges, you find hundreds of gigabytes of graphic video clips of surgical procedures, months worth of data logs that cite the horrific details of their human trials, and pages of perfected programming code. All in pursuit of this dangerous and illicit technology that’s been revolutionized by the pain and suffering of your coworkers. Genius developments stolen from the very people they used them against. Twisted into something malicious for profit and control.

You slide an encrypted flash drive into the USB port and take copies of it all, but curiosity begs you to search for your own name amongst it all now. To know whether or not you were poised to be one of the next ones on the chopping block.

It’s a humorless laugh that leaves your lips when you find out. A note is attached beside your name in the Project Imperium files, stating SUBJECT OFF LIMITS; Control Group Only, with Eddie’s name in the margins requiring it to be so. Many of the others on the project had deemed you a risk to the venture, originally slating you for experimentation, but Eddie’s sway with the CEO had won out. He had saved you from the fire, you knew, because of his partiality for you. However, you could not feel grateful when so many others had been cast to the flames.

A wave of righteous anger has been churning through you as you’ve made these discoveries. You have more than enough to ruin them on this alone, but the fury that fuels you demands more. To stoke a blaze so hot that nothing remains but ash. To bring the Heroics every finite detail you can about SDI so that those responsible can never do this again, not after what they’ve done to so many innocent people.

You delve deeper down a rabbit hole of truths about the company to which you’ve devoted years of your life, finding that Project Imperium is only the latest and most fantastical in a long series of wicked transgressions. They have taken the vast array of revolutions and inventions that you and your colleagues have spilled blood, sweat, and tears over. They have sold them off to the highest bidders: corrupt crime lords, terrorists, and even a noteworthy list of supervillains.

The acerbic taste of bile burns in your throat as you think of the company slogan: Innovating a Better World. What a load of bullshit that is. It’s just drivel meant to stroke at some inner altruism, to encourage brilliance that is used to do just the opposite. You’re going to hit them where it hurts though and maybe then you can fulfill what that slogan promises.

You disconnect the flash drive when it is loaded with your ill-gotten data, dropping it into the manilla folder with everything else you’ve uncovered, before you erase all evidence of tonight's visit. You are nearly out the door again when you pause, twisting through corridors to the biomedical lab to filch one of the implant prototypes. You don’t need it to prove anything, but it makes you feel good to swipe it as a parting gift of sorts.

The days that follow are a frenetic blur as you submit your findings to the intel team. After nearly six months devoted to unraveling this puzzle, you’ve solved it and now you have to move on. They fabricate a cover story for you, going so far as to get Danny’s firm an overseas contract to give you a reason to move home with him and Julie. It’s a farce he doesn’t care for, but he tolerates it better than you ending up in witness protection; shipped to some unknown corner of the country for who knows how long. And when you tender your resignation, Janet barely bats an eye, adding it to the growing pile of them that have landed at her desk.

You enjoy the satisfying resolution of your efforts a few weeks later. Danny, Julie, and you are crowded on their living room couch as a team of Heroics burst from the building on live television, going head-to-head against the Blood King in a heated battle through the city streets. Cheering at his defeat and unmasking him as the CEO of SDI, Arthur Ahbigor.

The gratification that you feel over these results, of course, twists to dread in the aftermath. You hadn’t expected the company to be run by a supervillain. Nor were you prepared to hear the news that many of the executives and their criminal cohorts had gone into the wind while the Heroics faced down the Blood King. And although efforts were made to try and mop them up, an attack by aliens soon overshadowed everything else and the hunt for them fell to the wayside in the grand scheme of things.

While Julie reassured you of your airtight alibi, you couldn’t help but feel like you would need to be watching your back for a while.

It’s late. Or early, you suppose, as you check your phone. 4 a.m. is one of those odd interlude hours that is neither one nor the other until you decide whether you should try to drift back off or give in to the pull of wakefulness. Sleep has been an elusive creature as of late. More so than usual. You know that it’s a combination of your unsettled nerves and the banal idleness that has overtaken your life.

You squint at the brightness of the display, fumbling with the lock button as you try to cast the room back into darkness. It doesn’t help. Whatever latent drowsiness you felt has begun to evaporate. The gears in your brain are cranking to full speed as you sit up in your bed. You rub the crusty remnants of sleep from your eyes with the heel of one hand before you toss away your covers. Glimmers of buttery yellow light from the streetlamp outside seep in through the cracks of your curtains, painting warm stripes across the carpet and walls of your bedroom.

The space still feels wholly impersonal to you, despite having occupied it for nearly a year. It had been Danny’s home office, which he hastily converted for your use. His retro drafting table and mismatched bookcases are still crammed off to the side of the room, covered in a thin layer of dust from disuse. He has an eclectic collection of architectural textbooks, Lovecraftian novellas, noir mysteries, and vintage superhero comics filling the shelves. You’ve perused them a few times but prefer your own library of dystopian sci-fi, high fantasy, and technical manuals that are still locked away in plastic totes in the back of the garage.

Really, the only items in here that belong to you are your bed and end table. There are no threadbare stuffed animals from your childhood or personal kitsch to be seen. Even your dresser is still in storage. Julie regularly argues that you still act like this arrangement is a temporary sojourn from your real life. You won’t admit to her face that you think she’s right. You’re just stuck in that in-between place, half feeling like being here is a burden and half ready to just settle in with them permanently because you love them so much. Only, you worry that once you take the leap away from surviving out of baskets of clean laundry and pilfered through moving boxes that the rug is going to get pulled out from under you again.

You think about that as you plod down the hall to the bathroom. Ruminating on it the entire time you are in the shower, washing the two-day-old dry shampoo from your hair and the night sweat from your skin. Let it sink into your bones as you dry yourself off and slip back into your pajamas for a few more hours before you truly start your day. You can’t help but think the worst. You’ve spent most of your time living with them expecting to be taken out by some crime lord’s hitman or kidnapped by one of the still-at-large executives whose livelihoods you ruined when you blew the whistle on SDI. Toss the lab incident on top of it all and it’s reduced you to an anxious, overthinking mess.

You slip downstairs to start a pot of coffee before settling down in front of the television. You flip it to one of the twenty-four-hour news stations as you dig into a bowl of Great White Bites and a plate of toaster waffles spread with peanut butter. A better option to the early morning infomercials or reruns of black-and-white classics. It plays mutedly, illuminating the eggshell walls in a sheen of pale blue light. The footage is a familiar repeat of the story that has captivated the nation's attention for the last two weeks: the lab explosion and partial destruction of Heroics Headquarters.

You sigh as you cram another bite of cereal in your mouth, tuning out the commentary of the news anchors as a montage of the most exciting clips from that day flicker across the screen. Cell phone video taken from the parking lot that was packed full of employees, the mass of them shrieking as the quake of the explosion reaches them. Smoke billowing from the building as the Heroics arrive en masse to the resounding cheers of the crowd. Tech-No leading the ragtag group of R&D survivors to safety. Miracle Guy’s dramatic landing with you in his arms as he simpers for the cameras, leaving you standing in the background looking bedraggled. Marcus and his family trying to outpace the reporters still begging for details on the incident, wearing the stoic expressions you remember so clearly from that night.

“Why am I not surprised to see you up so early,” Julie says, drawing your attention to her as she strolls into the room in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand as she drops beside you on the couch. She eyes your breakfast with her teasing ‘mom’ expression painted across her face, “And eating nothing but carbs and sugar. You know I bought that cereal for Sunny, right?”

“Sleep is overrated,” you joke as you slurp down the pink-tinged milk and set your empty bowl on the wooden coffee table in front of you. Then you liberate one of the cups of coffee from her, “Also, I like Great White Bites too. Makes me feel like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons and not some homebound spinster heading towards full hermit territory.”

“Don’t be so overdramatic,” she scolds you playfully, “You’re still treading in cool aunt territory, I promise.”

You roll your eyes and focus back on the news story, as it shifts to show newer aerial footage of the building. There’s scaffolding across the front facade as reconstruction efforts are well underway. This is as close as you’ve gotten to seeing what’s going on at work since your rescue from the rubble. The entirety of your department has been on a forced leave of absence since then. The public relations spin on it is that the Heroics were generously giving you all time to recuperate from the ordeal and that it also allowed them to retrofit the less damaged upper floors into a makeshift lab while the sublevels were rebuilt.

Julie lets out a disgusted scoff as the news anchors discuss the significant difficulty in getting any witness statements as a ticker-tape scrolls across the bottom of the screen: HEROIC HAVOC - Accident or Sabotage? Internal review to determine cause of blast. Employee interviews begin today.

The media has been relentlessly scrambling to get to the lab survivors, hoping that some big-mouthed associate or excitable intern will blab juicy insider details for the consumption of their viewers. Julie has had to install a Ring doorbell on the house and you’ve had to change your cell phone number in order to fend off the vultures. Public relations and human resources have been having a field day keeping it all mum until an official statement can be released. You aren’t allowed to have any contact with your direct colleagues until after the internal review is complete. Even Jules is on strict orders not to discuss the incident with you, aside from vague conversations that skirt around the meat of it. The reasoning given that they don’t want your testimony to be tainted by sharing stories.

You believe there’s probably a kernel of truth to that. Though you and Julie suspect it has more to do with the bevy of stony-faced lawyers that have taken up residence in one of the conference rooms near her office. Director Moreno, the heads of several departments, and a smattering of board members have all been taking daily meetings with them. No doubt being advised that you all remain separated until some legally binding documents can be foisted on you to keep you in check. All out of some misguided fear that you might all decide to band together and sue the Heroics for emotional and physical distress.

“Are you nervous?” Julie asks, locking eyes with you as the news anchors drone on in the background.

You shrug, sipping at your coffee to avoid answering right away. Truthfully, you are a little nervous. You’ve got a mid-morning time slot slatted for you and you wish it was earlier if only to get it all over with. Thinking about the internal review has been ravaging your mental state for days. It’s thrown your sleep schedule off-kilter and wound your nerves into a tight coil. With nothing constructive to give your mind a reprieve, you’ve spent hours thinking about what it will be like.

Are you only going to have to give your account of the event or will they ask for more? What if they ask about those hours buried beside Marcus? Mortification about that last part of the experience aside, you are worried about the repercussions of not giving them the answers they want.

Julie nudges you gently, raising her eyebrows and waiting for your reply. You breathe a low huff as you answer, “Of course I am,” and slouch in your spot, “You know how I get about things like this. I’m sure I’ll handle it fine in the moment, but I still have an irrational fear they’re going to fire me or someone else. I mean, look at everything PR has on their plate. The deal with the Ogima, Miracle Guy’s very public divorce, and now the lab incident.”

“Hey,” she sighs, wrapping an arm around you and leaning her head against your temple, “The PR team is full of assholes, that’s for sure, but what happens after the review isn’t up to them. Besides, I have it on good authority that they are currently mid-crisis trying to prevent Miracle Guy’s ex-wife from writing a scandalous tell-all book about how the Heroics caused the breakdown of her marriage. The accident isn’t even on their radar.”

“I suppose,” you concede, “but what if the board just decides to do away with our whole department? No place local will take me with my work history. I don’t want to end up slinging cheap coffee or, worse, back in retail.”

“Stop,” Julie says with a heave, “No more of this neurosis you’ve locked yourself into. It’s all going to pan out just fine. You’ll see. Lord knows I can’t take any more days of watching you burn through crime documentaries on Netflix and driving yourself crazy if it doesn’t,” she squeezes your hand as she continues her pep talk, “Remember our college catchphrase? The one we’d repeat to each other before every big exam or first day of class?”

“What does that-” you start, but she cuts you off with a firm tutting, and you sigh, unenthusiastically reciting it to her, “I am a fierce capable genius.”

She hits you with a stare again, expecting more zeal than that and you repeat it to her several times, each more energetically than the last until she is satisfied. She pats your knee and points a slender finger at you, “Fierce, capable geniuses don’t let shit like this intimidate them.”

“Yes, mom,” you acknowledge sarcastically, as she downs the remnants of her coffee. For a chunk of the morning, she puts her minor in legal studies to good use as she coaches you on how to act in the interview, before she disappears to get the girls ready and head in herself.

For all intents and purposes, Heroic Headquarters is the same as it ever was, save for the obvious repairs going on as you pull in. The part that strikes you as odd is how the day is a shift from your normal routine. The parking lot is still congested with cars as you search for a space, though you’ve driven yourself today instead of ride-sharing with Julie. The shuttle ride is the same, though there’s only one parked at the bridge this time of day and you are its sole occupant as it rolls into the loading dock. A security officer takes extra steps to confirm your identity when you disembark, when before you’d only needed to swipe your badge at one of the turnstiles and zip down to the lab.

You aren’t surprised by this latest development as the security officer reviews something on his monitor as you pass him your badge, “I see you’re here for the internal review?”

“Yep,” you say with an affirming nod. While Julie may not have been able to directly discuss the lab incident with you, she has been able to tell you about the ripple effect it’s caused at work. The board, spurred by the concerns of the lawyers, has instituted new protocols. They’ve increased the presence of security across the campus, with more patrols and area checks. A hefty chunk of change was also dropped on a system for tracking employee schedules with a fine-toothed comb, so they can account for their comings and goings from the building. Even the badges have been upgraded with microchips that can ping your internal location to within a ten-foot radius.

All of it stinks of bureaucratic bullshit and edges on being too Big Brother-like, even if you thought their concern was justified, which you don’t. If anything, it feels like they’ve put too much credence into the media’s hokey conspiracy theories that the explosion was anything more than an accident.

“Here’s your new badge,” the officer tells you as he passes it over the desk and you note that it’s basically identical to your old one, ugly picture and all. It's the first good sign that you aren’t about to be given the boot any time soon. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “Got one of the assistants coming down to escort you to the interview if you’ll step that way.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile, smacking your badge against your palm before tucking it, lanyard and all, into your pocket. You shuffle a few feet from the desk and wait a few minutes before a young woman with a bored expression on her face arrives. She checks you in for the interview on her tablet, making some half-hearted attempts to be sociable as she leads you through the building.

You think it’s a little ridiculous that they feel you need a babysitter to make it from the door to your interview. The lack of trust feels like a slap in the face considering you’ve done nothing wrong to warrant it. The apprehension you felt leading up to today has begun to dry up as it shifts into indignation.

Your guide offers a few shallow pleasantries as you pass a number of closed-off hallways, the whirs and whams of construction beyond the plastic sheeting and yellow caution tape drowning out her voice. She twists you around displaced furniture and decor that’s been scattered in the open spaces, bitterly commenting that facilities is still trying to find storage space for all of it in the interim. Finally, she steers you away from the main thoroughfare with its bustling foot traffic into a long corridor that leads to an isolated section of Headquarters you’ve never been in before.

“Have a seat here,” she instructs, pointing to one of several cushioned chairs that line the hallway at even intervals. You recognize your colleagues seated in the others and offer them a silent wave and a smile. She grimaces when she notices and gives you an annoyed look, “Please don’t speak with anyone awaiting their interview. You will be called back by name when they are ready for you.”

With how far apart you are spread, it would be impossible to hold a conversation without shouting anyway, so you give her a “Sure,” before she walks away. Unable to do anything else, you pick at the non-existent fuzz on the lapel of your blazer and mindlessly scroll through your Tumblr feed. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch a steady stream of people come and go from various rooms tucked behind wooden doors with thin quarter-lite windows. The looks on their faces give nothing away of what to expect.

When your name is finally called after about thirty or so minutes, you stand and straighten out your outfit. It’s an over-starched navy blue suit ensemble that hasn’t left its garment bag since you were hired, but per Julie, it would make a better impression than showing up in your typical washed-out jeans and sneakers.

The woman who summoned you is a little older than you, with a sharp asymmetrical blond bob and burgundy lipstick. You quickly notice the sour look on her face as her critical gaze bounces from you to the others waiting in the hallway. She gives you a firm but impassive handshake before she ushers you through one of the doors.

Between her and the assistant from earlier, you’re getting the vibe that they don’t like the people from your department. It rubs you the wrong way and you start to repeat this morning’s mantra in your head - I am a fierce capable genius. I am a fierce capable genius - as you bite your tongue at her attitude.

You’re surprised by what you see when you get into the room. You’ve been imagining walking into some cavernous chamber with austere wooden furniture and a scowling tribunal pinning you down with icy stares. Instead, this room looks like a break room that was hastily converted into an interview space, with its cream-colored wallpaper, beige tile floor, and small kitchenette.

There’s been an attempt to make the space more comfortable, whether, for your sake or the interviewers, you aren't sure. The tables and chairs have been stacked beneath a high-set rectangular window that lets in just enough natural light that it softens the harsh glow of the overhead fluorescents. A taupe brown loveseat has been pushed against the far wall and the woman who summoned you joins another interviewer who is seated on it. Her cohort is a short older man with black hair and streaks of gray at his temples.

“Join us, please,” he says as he motions to a plush wingback chair arranged opposite the loveseat with a glass coffee table in between. He smiles when he shakes your hand, “Would you like a bottle of water before we get started?”

“No, thank you,” you reply as you take a seat.

“Then, let’s get started,” the woman states, grabbing a small remote from the table and clicking one of the buttons. A camera in the corner of the room blinks to life as her partner hands her a tablet and stylus from the table, “We’ll be recording everything you say from this point on.”

The man begins to ask questions first, starting with reviewing your basic details - name, age, position, and tenure - before requesting that you provide them with a detailed description of what happened the day of the lab incident. You’ve gone through the event in your head multiple times since it happened, so you are able to easily relate everything that happened from the start of the demonstration up until the pulse reactor detonated. As you speak, the woman enters information into the device in her hands. When you’ve finished they take a moment to whisper quietly amongst themselves, glancing at the tablet together as they scroll through it.

“It’s our understanding,” the woman tilts her head and speaks after a beat of silence, “that you were involved in a whistleblower incident with your former employer, Strategic Development Industries. Per files that were provided to us by the intel team, your observations and documentation of their activities were instrumental in shuttering the company and prosecuting many high-profile criminals. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s true,” you attest.

The man hums a moment as if expecting you to elaborate, but if they’ve spoken to the intel team then they should have the full details on that already. He moves on when he realizes that’s all you’ll give him, “Could your involvement in that event have any bearing on the incident that occurred here on September 17th?”

“I don’t believe so,” you answer truthfully, “To my knowledge, my identity as the whistleblower is still unknown. A court order ruled that my testimony on that case be submitted under a pseudonym to protect my privacy and safety. And if my identity had been revealed, I would imagine there are easier places to get to me than inside of Heroics Headquarters.”

“I see,” the woman muses, moving on again. Her stoic expression gives nothing away of what she thinks of your assessment, “How well do you know the intern, Sarah Yoo?”

“Sarah and I have worked together since she started her summer internship in May,” you tell her, “Our areas of expertise differ, but I would say we are friends. I spent some time helping her prepare her spoken presentation for the demonstration of her pulse reactor.”

“Do you believe that Ms. Yoo could have designed the device to self-destruct or that she could have tampered with it just before the demonstration to obtain such a result?” the woman asks. Her tone is admonishing and you’re aghast at the insinuation that Sarah had meant to cause such wanton destruction. You can’t help but gawk at her before you rein yourself in from saying something sharp.

“No,” you reply firmly to her, “Sarah is bright and talented. She’d never risk her degree or future career to be intentionally destructive. And to what end?”

The woman gives the man a side-eyed glance before speaking again, “Not even for some kind of gain, monetary or otherwise?”

“Of course not,” you scoff, crossing your arms defensively, “If it hadn’t been for the Heroics being in the lab that day, people would have died. She’s not a murderer. Her whole dissertation focused on creating affordable clean energy and its benefit to humanity. Someone with aspirations like that wouldn’t do something that might hurt or kill people.”

“I realize these inquiries are a lot to swallow, “the man takes over, picking up on how his partner’s unsympathetic bedside manner has raised your hackles and he attempts to swing the interview back into neutrality, “but we only want to get to the truth of what happened. Now, to your knowledge, did anyone other than Ms. Yoo handle the device or have in-depth knowledge of its design?”

You take a deep breath and try to loosen up, “She would have worked most closely with others whose focus is pulse technology. But, we have a fairly progressive thought-share system in R&D that crosses specializations, so she may have consulted any number of people in regard to her project. How much detail she shared of that process, I don’t know. She would have had to provide specifics of her research and design to Frank, our senior lab assistant, to get it sent up for approval before she could actually build it. Tech-No is often in the field, so he often handles most of the supervisory work.”

“Frank?” he asks, taking the tablet from the other interviewer and scrolling through it, “Is that Franklin Wilson? His dedication is to micro-technology and biomedical nanites?”

“Yes, that’s him,” you confirm. He takes a few minutes focusing on what he sees displayed, as the woman leans to read over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the details she sees. He doesn’t look away from the screen, but she keeps glaring up at you and then back down to the device.

As they pause the interview, you find yourself stewing in your irritation as the minutes beat on. The female interviewer seems to have already come to a firm conclusion about what she thinks happened the day of the explosion, a small accusatory bite every time she opens her mouth. It’s obvious that these questions are aimed at determining if someone meddled with the reactor, but you wish they’d just ask you outright if you think it’s sabotage or an accident. You can’t see the sense in being forced to analyze your friend’s and colleague’s actions. As you wait, you wonder if they had been more straightforward with Marcus and Tech-No, who were as much a witness as you to the whole ordeal. Or if they’d been spared this whole interview charade because they were Heroics.

“Would you say,” the man continues at last, “that Mr. Wilson had an interest in Ms. Yoo that extended beyond the typical supervisor and subordinate relationship?”

“I think there were romantic inclinations from both parties,” you explain, trying to be careful with how you worded this, “but Frank was maintaining professional distance to allow her to steer it into other directions if she so chose. While not beholden to a non-fraternization policy, he didn’t want to push any boundaries she was unwilling to cross.”

“So, Mr. Wilson had significant access to both the device and its blueprints, and also had unresolved attachments to its creator,” the woman cuts in before her colleague can speak, “And as you’ve indicated, as a pseudo-supervisor, no one would have given a second thought to him looking over an interns project. He could have made alterations to the device in order to garner attention from Ms. Yoo upon its failure.

“Are you serious?” you spit back with a scowl, “Frank has devoted nearly ten years of his life to the Heroics. He would never put our lives at risk over something as trivial as that.”

The woman gives you an icy look, quirking an eyebrow at you, “He clearly isn’t an expert in pulse technology. The destruction could have been an unintended side-effect.”

She states it matter-of-factly. A clear statement and not a question at all.

“The destruction was a terrible accident outside of anyone's control,” you growl out, digging your fingernails into your palms with how tightly you are balling your hands into a fist, “We’re not villains. Quite frankly, I’m insulted at this continuous attempt to characterize myself or my colleagues as such. I’ve seen firsthand what deliberate wrongdoing looks like and this is not it.”

The woman opens her mouth to reply, only for her partner to cut her off, “I think we’ve gotten everything we need from you today. I want to thank you for coming in to speak with us. All of the interviews should be concluded by the end of the day, so you may return to work in the morning. If we have any follow-up questions, we will reach out to you there.”

He stands, extending his hand to you while the woman grabs up the remote once more and stops the camera from recording. You return a half-hearted shake before storming out of the room. You’re so offended by the whole interview, you briefly consider going to HR to complain or to quit. You let out an aggravated huff as you slam the door shut behind you.

You zip past the people still waiting for their own interviews, earning puzzled stares for your behavior. You ignore their looks as you whip out your phone, only occasionally glancing up from the screen as you punch out a message to Julie.

YOU: That interview was some serious bullshit. YOU: I’m bailing on our lunch meet-up. Just gonna go home.

You’re making a beeline for the shuttle dock when her reply buzzes in your hand and you stop abruptly in the small foyer just before the main doors in order to see her response.

JULES: Slow your roll, drama queen. JULES: Was it really that bad? What happened? YOU: Yes, it was. The interviewer was a bitch, for one. YOU: I’ll give you more details at home. JULES: Oh joy, I’ll pick up some rant-worthy wine when I get out. JULES: And don’t eat all the ice cream again. I know how you get when you’re pissed. YOU: No promises. Might want to get another tub of Rocky Road to be safe.

It’s the brush of a hand at your elbow that pulls your focus away from your phone and you jolt a little at the contact. You turn back sharply as you lock the screen and put it back in your pocket, pleasantly surprised when you come face-to-face with Marcus. He smiles softly and your irritation melts at the sight of him, looking ever the picture of business casual in an olive green button-up that makes the flecks of gold and caramel stand out in his deep umber eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes as his right hand glides from your elbow down your arm, his palm settling in yours before he gives it a gentle squeeze. He takes a moment to drink you in, your features relaxing at his touch as you return a grin to him, your pearly teeth peeking out between your lips.

He’s glad to see how well you look. The few times he’s crossed paths with your sister-in-law recently, he’s asked after you, but her replies - a brief fine or good - hadn’t done much to sate his concern for you. He takes a glance around the foyer, devoid of anyone but a wandering security officer making her rounds and another sat behind a desk by the door, before he steps in towards you. He can’t help that he wants to be as deep in your sphere as you’ll let him get, gratified when you allow him to shorten the gap between you without hesitation.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, tilting your head up to look him in the eyes, relishing in the warmth of his gaze as he leans in towards you. Seeing him again, seemingly by happenstance, piques your curiosity as you ask, “Were you heading out to lunch or…?”

“No, I-uh,” he replies with an embarrassed chuckle, flushing pink at his ears and down his neck, as he rubs his free hand through the hair at the back of his head, “Would it be weird if I said that I called in a favor with Lee in Security to let me know when you got in?”

You both peer over at the guard where he sits nonchalantly at his desk, the selfsame man who checked you in this morning, as he staunchly refuses to even look in your direction. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and Marcus swears he feels the sound of it zip electrically beneath his skin.

You can’t help but think his flustered state is sweet, as you grip at his hand a little more tightly, fingers lacing into his as your heart beating wildly against your ribs, “If I say no,” you smirk playfully, “will you tell me why you were looking for me?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explains gently, his left hand rising up to brush back your hair so he can sweep his thumb across the healed pink scar at your temple, “How’ve you been? I wanted to follow up before now but…”

He’s inched himself in a little closer and you can feel the body heat radiating off his skin. It reminds you of how warm he was to lean against as the two of you dozed together. The easy closeness you had forged that night has carried through to this moment, making it all the more amiable. You’ve thought often about those hours you were together, sat on your couch, sipping from a mug of tea and pretending to read while trying to analyze his behavior like it was a puzzle to be solved. The only logical conclusion being that he might have more than just a polite interest in you.

Emboldened by your near-death experience and this new evaluation of him, you resolved that if, in your next interaction, he took those leaps again you would jump right along with him. Now here you were. And you were just waiting for him to take that step off the precipice.

“I’ve been good, bored, but good,” you reassure him as his hand slips away from your face to rest uncertainly at his side, “I’ve done my interview, so I’ve got the green light to come back to work. It was strange being forced to stay home and not talk to anyone.”

Marcus is absorbed by you. The clean citrus of your shampoo and the floral touch of your perfume. How your eyes sparkle in the sunlight as it filters in from the skylight overhead. The smoothness of your skin as he skims his fingers across your knuckles. He has a secondary purpose in seeking you out. Trying to get through the polite banter while simultaneously resisting the desire to pull you in and kiss you fiercely. He’d been counting the days until you both were on the same terrain again, so maybe he could ask you to coffee or dinner without coworkers or disasters getting in the way again.

He takes a deep breath, looking for a place in the conversation to fit the offer in, as he asks “How’d that go? Are you even allowed to talk about it?” and he catches the brief glower of irritation that passes your features, “That bad?”

“I left with the distinct impression that my colleagues and I were not well-liked,” you sigh, trying not to let the anger ruin what has been a pleasant interaction with him, “I’m sure they would have been much more pleasant with you and the other Heroics.”

“Only if you call midnight debriefings pleasant,” Marcus grimaces, scrunching up his nose so much that he has to adjust his glasses when they slide down the bridge, “Missy and I had barely gotten in the door before I had to get onto a video conference. We were both exhausted. She fell asleep on the couch next to me because she didn’t want to be alone. That day wasn’t easy on her.”

“I can’t believe they couldn’t let it wait,” you admonish. You had seen how distraught his daughter had been first hand and you had hoped that he’d have been given the time to comfort her, “Even just a day. For her, if no one else.”

Sure, she may be the leader of the Young Heroics and, from the stories Marcus had told you, be incredibly capable and resilient. But at the end of the day, she was still a child. One who had already experienced the loss of a parent and who might have easily lost the other that night if circumstances hadn’t shaken out just right. It made your heart ache for her.

Marcus doesn’t miss the frown that puckers at your mouth or the nettled tone of your voice and he can feel his own emotions swirl at the concern you feel for him. For his daughter.

“Welcome to the inner workings of the Heroics,” he grumbles, eyes pinching shut as he recalls it, “First was a barrage of questions about what happened so that the PR team could be one step ahead of the piranhas in the media. Followed by members of the board giving Tech an unwarranted dressing down for letting the accident happen on his watch. It was a nightmare.”

You were slowly starting to get the gist that, underneath the bright luster at its surface, the Heroics brand had people behind the scenes that cared more about its perceived image than they did about the actual people who made the place run, both the heroes and the everyday employees.

Marcus is distracted by the memory as you close the last few inches between the two of you. He comes back to reality as your right hand settles on his chest, resting just over his heart so you can feel it drum beneath your fingertips. “The expectations they’ve put on all of you isn’t fair. Too many people forget that at the end of the day you’re only human and I’m sorry that you have to put up with that kind of thinking.”

The combination of your touch and your words threatens to steal the breath from his lungs. His left hand draws over yours to hold it in place as he dips his face in towards yours. So close that you could be breathing the same air. The moment seems near-perfect as his voice drops to a dulcet rasp, “Listen, do you-”

The request never makes it off of his tongue as a packed shuttle of employees returning from lunch lands in the loading dock, voices carrying loud enough to pull you both from the private haze you’d become ensconced in. The throng of them are idly caught waiting to pass through the security check and Marcus is the first to notice the occasional looks of recognition that cross some of their faces when their curious gazes land on him, then flickering to you and the intimate pose you share.

It’s instinct for him to disentangle himself from you and move back into a neutral stance. Widening the gap and ending the connection of your shared points of contact. It’s not an act of shame so much as one of protection. He hates that he has to unwind himself from you, but his role in the Heroics has thrust a level of celebrity on him that he can’t avoid. A side-effect of the hype surrounding the supers. He’s grown accustomed to the scrutiny, but he doesn’t like the idea of you being thrust into it so abruptly.

He wants to give whatever this might be between you the chance to start off right. Normally. Naturally. Not while bearing the pressure of public opinion. Even as much as he wants to say, “Fuck it all,” and take the leap. But it’s not something he wants made into a public spectacle.

There’s a stinging awkwardness left in the chasm that now divides you. His demeanor shifts. The soft, open Marcus you’ve had glimpses of today slips back behind his well-practiced mask. The change in the air makes you nervous, eyes darting to look everywhere but at him or the crowd. You sigh in disappointment at the lost opportunity.

“I was really glad to talk to you again,” he tells you stiffly, trying to figure out what to do with his hands now that he can’t touch you, resorting to stuffing them in his pockets in frustration as another wave of people returning to work from their lunch breaks swarms through the quickly congesting foyer. Finally, he offers you a wistful half-smile, “I’ll see you again?”

“We do always seem to bump into one another,” you offer hopefully as he finally steps away into the growing throng.

Chapter Four

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